Lex Talionis
by Foodstamp
Summary: Years after losing contact with their childhood friends, Detectives Marsh and McCormick pick up a domestic abuse case that exposes their own dark history. Kenny's POV, StanxKyle and secret pairings, mature. Still need to post the epilogue, sorry!
1. Chapter 1

AN: Ohgod, I should be studying. I should _not_ be posting. Especially not ridiculously long, dry stories that no one in their right mind would take the time to read. But I got the idea to do a cop story after watching Law and Order: SVU and South Park too close to each other, and this was a perfect venting project for midterm-week. Strange, how writing angsty bad!fic can be so therapeutic! What I mean is I hope nobody feels obligated to read this. If I were my own reviewer, I think I'd flame myself for this one. Actually, I'm HIV positive.

Warnings: This really deserves the M-rating. Murder, violence, blood, slash, smexing, voyeurism, non-con situations, language, lots of other little nasties. Also inaccuracies with police procedure, but I did the research as best I could. This is a two-shot because I fail at chapter-breaks; Gregory is a main character in the second half. The main pairings are StanxKyle, CraigxThomas, PipxDamien (I think). Others are secret, or minor.

I'm really embarrassed that so much of what I write is such twisted shit, but it wouldn't be honest of me to apologize, because I'm not quite guilty enough to reform yet. I just hope no one thinks less of me for this. Especially my friends irl.

Thank you! I'm done now.

* * *

Lex Talionis

* * *

Stan Marsh and I were eight years old the first time we worked for the Park County Police Department. Our success was a fluke, and we quickly lost interest in the game, but you never really forget how it feels to be a part of something so righteous-it was a memory I returned to a thousand times in my life, whenever I needed to fall back on an ultimate good. My parents scoffed at me for the mindset. "Every system has its cracks, Kenny," my father reminded me frequently, as a born skeptic of the law. "Corruption is corruption, even if it's wearing a blue uniform." But I'd seen enough shit in the world, enough unfairness to know how to defend moral integrity. When my college advisor asked me to pick a major, I chose criminal justice.

By the time I got certified, there were just enough officers to open up a local precinct for the first time in South Park history. It was headed by Mitch Harris, previously partnered with Yates in the Park County unit, and easily the town's most competent transfer. He ran a clean shift: Johnson was forensics, Franks was a medical specialist, Dawson worked homicide and abuse, and Murphy patrolled with Officer Barbrady and kept him in line. Stan and I were the department detectives. I had maybe a year and a half of seniority because he'd dabbled in veterinary science for a few semesters, but I rarely had to pull rank. Stan knew what he was doing; he had the strongest principles of anyone in the station. We were best friends. The two of us had been inseparable since high school, after we'd lost contact with one of our closest companions shortly before junior year.

The crime rate in South Park was low, and generally harmless. Red got habitual speeding tickets. Randy Marsh sometimes volunteered himself into detox, much to Stan's embarrassment. Murphy once busted one Leopold Stotch for tagging a bridge, and Butters and I couldn't stop laughing as we filled out his paperwork. We ended up pinning the pictures of his graffiti on our bulletin board. Butters was an art teacher; his vandalism really just served as town beautification, no biggie.

The most serious incident we'd had so far was a murder-suicide. It had been a shock to everyone in town. After losing his job, a distraught father had come home and shot his wife and children, then turned the gun on himself. I hadn't known the family personally, like Harris and Franks, and even as an open-and-shut case, it had been traumatizing. Stan had a lot of trouble processing the concept of a man who would hurt his own kids out of love. I was no stranger to parental abuse, but I knew my dad cared about me. I went home to my parents that night and hugged them for the first time since I was twelve, and as I left, my father said, "I'm proud of you, son." That was what carried me to work the next day. From then on, I made it a point to always remember what I was protecting.

Apart from a few other robberies and drug-trafficking charges, that was pretty much the job. Stan and I did a lot of deskwork. That's why we were surprised when a young man our age walked into our office one quiet afternoon, personally escorted by Harris.

"Marsh, McCormick," Harris said. "Are you busy?"

I exchanged amused glances with Stan. We had been sorting files and debating the philosophies of Star Trek. "Sure, we've got a minute," I said. "What's up?"

"I am 'ere to report an incident of spousal abuse," the man said briskly, without preamble. He spoke with a heavy French accent. As we watched him, he popped a match on his ragged thumbnail and lit the cigarette between his teeth. Smoking was prohibited in the station, but Harris didn't say anything, so neither did we.

"What kind of spousal abuse?" I asked.

He turned to me with a scowl. The hollows of his eyes were circled in fatigue, like bruises. "Emotional, physical, sexual, psychological," he snapped, smoke leaking from his lips as he talked. "Whichever is easiest to prove. Believe me, if I 'ad any alternatives, I would not be 'ere wasting my time with private dicks."

I faltered a little in the face of his disdain, but Stan just pushed out a chair and graciously gestured for him to sit down. "Thanks, Harris," he said, and Harris gave us an appreciative look and closed the door. Our visitor waited until his footsteps had faded down the hall, then slowly moved to take a seat. He laced his fingers together. His leather gloves squeaked as he fidgeted, and I examined him, wondering if he was a druggie or just high-strung. He was wearing a faded green shirt and dark cargos. Heavy combat boots peeked out from the tattered hems.

"You aren't local, are you?" Stan asked. "You look familiar."

He snorted. "Like I'd want to live in this shithole of a town. No, I am visiting someone."

"Who?"

"The last name is Norman."

"Norman." I didn't know any Normans in South Park. "And is she the one in the abusive relationship?"

His eyes flashed. "_He_. It is a male friend of mine." He spoke with a strange significance, something that indicated that their relationship was more than casual. Stan caught it too; I noticed his expression change slightly. The guy flicked ash and dragged deep on his cigarette. "I only 'ope you are more competent than your 'ospital's medical staff."

"Why's that?"

"A week or so ago, my friend was seriously injured in a 'fall down the stairs.' The doctors failed to notice the bruising around 'is wrists and neck." He paused, swallowing with difficulty. That simple sign of emotion made me like him a lot more. "Listen, I 'ave known 'im for almost two decades," he said, his voice choked. "Maybe 'e is too kind, but I've never seen 'im so…_weak_. Defeated."

"Do you have any idea who's harming him?" I asked.

"_Oui_, I 'ave 'ad the recent displeasure of meeting 'is 'significant other.' I do not know the name, but 'e is large and strong, and 'e speaks with 'is fists. Piece of shit." He hissed out that last.

The worst part of working law enforcement in a redneck mountain town was the old-fashioned mentality. A slap in your spouse's face was just discipline; humiliation the norm. I was grateful this French guy was enough of an outsider to realize something was wrong. "We'll look into this right away," I said. "Do you have an address for us?"

He took a pen from the cup on Stan's desk and wrote the numbers across the file I was organizing. 21230, E. Bonanza Cr. Stan looked over my shoulder, his mouth curving into a nostalgic half-smile.

"Our old stomping grounds," he said wistfully.

"Kind of a trip, isn't it? That was nearly fourteen years ago. Yeah, we know where this is." I stood up and offered my hand to our visitor. His grip was cold and sturdy. "Thanks so much for bringing this to our attention. Go three doors down and talk to Lieutenant Dawson; tell him what you told us. Your name is…?"

"Christophe," he said, after a pause. He did not offer a last name.

Unmistakably, Stan stiffened beside me. I glanced at him. He simply stared at Christophe, and Christophe met his gaze in earnest for the first time, his dark eyes narrowing as he made some silent connection. They sustained eye contact for maybe three solid seconds. Then Christophe shoved his chair back and ground his cigarette out on his pant leg, nodding almost imperceptibly. "Competence, I 'ave yet to see," he said in a low voice, moving towards the door. He glanced at Stan a final time. "But perhaps this is assurance that you will _care_."

I turned to Stan when he was out of earshot. "What was that about?"

"I know him," Stan said, sounding bemused.

Obviously, but that didn't make any sense. With the exception of some Mormon guy named Gary downtown, we shared all of our friends. "From where?"

"I worked with him in-La-something. Revolution? La _Resistance_, shit, that's what it was." This wasn't ringing any bells. He sighed. "You remember that activist group I helped form a long time ago when our mothers were campaigning against Canada? That guy helped us break out Terrance and Phillip. A mercenary. We called him 'The Mole.' I didn't get to know him very well…I mean, he was lot closer to…"

He trailed off abruptly. We were toeing a line we hadn't crossed in years. I cleared my throat, trying to steer the conversation towards something safer. "He certainly didn't seem too impressed with our justice system, did he?"

Stan chewed his lip for a long moment. "Yeah…no surprise there. He's pretty anti-American."

"Why would he come back here?"

"Just visiting his friend, apparently. This Norman. I hadn't realized he'd made any."

"Small world," I said. I sighed, looking back down at the address he'd given us. Spousal abuse-a cottage industry in our town, ever-present, but rarely reported. "This is going to be a shit-lousy way to end a shift. You're coming with me, right? For the good-cop bad-cop routine? Assuming you don't want out, what with your connection to Christophe and all."

Stan waved his hand dismissively. "Like I said, barely knew the guy. I'm going with you. I've been aching to bust some wife-beater's ass."

"Husband-beater," I corrected.

His face darkened further. "Right. Mr. Norman."

He paused for a long moment, looking up at me with a sudden, strange sort of unease. I shifted, hoping he wasn't going to start spouting off statistics for gay relationships. His sexuality honestly didn't bother me-I'd known him my whole life; it was never really an issue-but even the most subtle mention of his preference reminded him of his only serious boyfriend. His soulmate. A certain young man whose absence still made me ache with heartsickness, whose name I put in the prayer box every Sunday at church. I saw all of this in Stan's eyes. It was nearing the ten-year anniversary of their last day together.

"Hey, Stan," I said gently.

Stan forced a smile. "I'm cool, Kenny. I'm just…I try not to think about it anymore. Water under the bridge." He nodded towards the file in my hand, adding offhandedly, "You know, my middle name is Norman."

I grinned at him. "Seriously? Because that makes your initials S-N-M."

"I do love my handcuffs," he agreed. "And what the fuck ever. Isn't your middle name Upton?"

"So?"

"Uh, K-U-M?"

The tiny knot of tension in my stomach finally unraveled. I laughed, feeling honestly okay for the first time since Christophe's visit. "Yeah, douchebag, K-U-M," I said. "As in, 'kum' on and let's get this over with. We're wasting precious daylight."

Stan shrugged on his coat, flicking off the lights as we strolled out of our office, which was littered with paperwork and junk food wrappers from the last few weeks' minimal activity. I grabbed the keys for the second patrol car and signed out. Domestic violence was no cup of tea, but it brought us one step closer to justice-definitely a worthy pursuit, judging by the concentration in Stan's face as he paged diligently through his notes. Our badges glittered on the seat between us.

At least there was that, I thought, pulling onto the main road a few blocks from our potential victim's residence. Nothing got your minds off your past skeletons like being on a hot case.

* * *

"21230, East Bonanza Circle…this is the place."

The house was a dilapidated ranch, its redbrick facing cobwebbed from years of neglect. All of the windows were shuttered. I examined the oil-spotted driveway while Stan fussed around in the dying peripheries of shrubbery, trying to get close enough to hear through the cheap siding. Since our years away, the neighborhood had become eerily quiet-the predictable result of children growing up and moving out, but even that couldn't explain the street's sense of abandonment. I felt unwelcome in the silence. The green split-level across the road had once belonged to one of my close friends, sporting nothing from our past except for the skeleton framework of an old clubhouse.

A long tearing sound interrupted my reverie. Stan swore colorfully behind me, then stepped up onto the porch, blushing and brushing twigs off his pants. "Sounds like someone's home," he said. "I think there's an exhaust fan going inside."

"Alright, let's figure this out." I leaned forward and rang the bell. It chimed delicately inside the house. I sensed no movement on the opposite side of the door, no immediate signs of a resident, but we could both feel a hesitating presence as the fan slowly turned off. Footsteps paused in the hallway. I looked at Stan. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. Wait, no." He pulled his glasses out of his front pocket and quickly put them on. "Do I look better or worse this way?"

I rolled my eyes. "The point is, do you _see_ better?"

"Kenny, seriously. Do I look like someone you would want to confide in?"

He did look trustable, comforting. He'd always had a kinder face. "You look like you're about thirteen years old," I said, not willing to admit it.

Stan whipped his glasses off, opening his mouth to retort, but we were silenced by the sound of a key scraping into the lock. The noise was followed by a series of tiny clicks-at least four bolts, from the sound of it-and the door opened an inch or so, still tethered by a chain. I made a mental note about the house's excessive security. Stan and I stood up a little straighter, quickly regaining as much of our professionalism as we could.

"Hello?" someone said warily.

I raised my badge. "Good afternoon, Mr. Norman? I'm Detective McCormick with the South Park police, and this is Detective Marsh. We were hoping to ask you a few questions."

The figure shifted awkwardly. "I'm not supposed to answer the door when my fiancé isn't home."

"Not even for the cops?"

"Especially not for the cops."

My resolve was not discouraged. I wasn't ready to call it quits yet; there was clearly something going on here. Norman fingered one of the locks, purposely keeping his face in the shadow of the door so I could only make out the right half of his eye. "We're investigating reports of a domestic disturbance a few weeks ago," I said, subtly peering past him. I couldn't really see anything inside. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation, but we want to make sure you're okay."

"Afterwards, we'd be happy to leave you alone," Stan added.

Norman hesitated, clearly torn between his instructions and his hope to get rid of us. After a long, strained pause, he closed the door and slowly removed the final chain. Stan and I had to let ourselves in. He immediately retreated back into the kitchen.

The inside of the house was strangely immaculate, given its outward appearance. The carpet fibers were lined from a recent vacuuming, and floor lamps radiated clean light onto the furniture, which was sparse, yet tasteful. Either Norman was exceptionally dedicated in his housework, or he had nothing better to do. A prisoner in his own goddamn house. The locks and shutters were enough to support this hypothesis, and I could tell from Stan's disturbed expression that he was thinking the same thing. He gestured to the picture frames over his shoulder. My stomach turned uneasily. They were all empty.

"Take a seat," Norman called from the kitchen. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, hard liquor?" Despite his obvious reluctance, his voice was edged with sarcasm. There was a low buzz as he opened and closed his freezer door.

"Thanks, no," I said.

Stan sniffed the air. "I smell ammonia."

"Hm, I garden a little. Must be the fertilizer."

As demonstrated by the dying lawn and hedges? That was not at all convincing. Why the hell would he lie about something so trivial?

"Where is your fiancé now?" I asked, examining the row of shoes by the door. There were at least two different sizes. The smaller sneakers, presumably Norman's, were still a pristine white.

"Working."

"Where does he work?"

"The Kermadec Islands. He's a part of the Polynesian mafia. They run all their rings by canoe; it's really quite intense."

At least his fall down the stairs hadn't affected his wit. I sighed and moved to sit down, missing Stan's cautionary gestures until I'd already planted my ass square onto the tightly-plasticized cushion. It squeaked incriminatingly. I could feel my ears turning red. "Oh god, he saran-wraps his furniture," I muttered, shifting awkwardly on the couch. My palms kept sliding off the armrests. "What is he protecting it from? Bad weather?"

"Sofa lambskins," Stan said, joining me more gracefully. "For your ultimate seating safety."

I tugged experimentally at the plastic cover. The upholstery underneath was a rich mahogany, probably as bright as it had been on its day of purchase. It pretty much summed up how deeply unsettling the house was-the place was like a museum, showy and fabricated. No way living people actually used this room; it was too perfect. "You get the feeling we're being put-on?" I asked Stan, keeping my voice low.

He nodded. "That's exactly how I feel. I think he was expecting us."

"What do you think about him?"

"Fronting. His pride is at stake, and it's put him on the defensive. His fiancé has got him under his thumb, but he's not acting like it at all-what does that mean? You think this is a fairly new relationship?"

"Or an old one that's he's losing patience with," I said.

Stan looked at me wordlessly, his eyes hardening.

We had our backs to the kitchen when Norman returned, stepping around the couch and lounging into the armchair opposite us. I stiffened a little in my seat. The cushions squeaked again. Norman was holding a bag of frozen peas against his left cheek, which was bruised in a pattern of blacks and purples. One of his eyes had swollen shut. His upper lip was plush and uninjured, but the bottom was split in several places, mended with tiny black stitches. Deep cuts traced the bored curve of his mouth. Even the less damaged side of his face was probably contused beyond his own family's recognition. I didn't need to turn to see the dismay in Stan's expression.

Silence reigned for a solid five seconds.

"So," Norman offered eventually, casually tucking his feet under him. His house slippers were worn out as hell. "Exactly how reasonable does my explanation need to be before you'll leave?"

"Try us," I said, my mouth running on automatic. Beside me, Stan was still motionless.

"I got mugged coming home from church," Norman said. He had cotton balls packed into his cheek, garbling his voice. "One guy with a pocket knife. He'd been drinking or something…I threw him my wallet, but he kept hitting me. When he finally backed off, I managed to get home and call the hospital."

"And what did your attacker look like?"

His eyes grew distant. "Average height? I don't know. He was wearing a baseball cap."

Oh, the infamous 'generic' suspect. I should've known. "Why didn't you file a police report?"

"No big deal. It was just some drunkard who made off with three dollars in bus tokens."

"Try armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. Potential sexual violence, from the looks of it."

He winced minutely at that, clearly not realizing that Stan and I had a pretty good view of the bruises around his wrists and neck. He shifted the collar of his shirt. "That's something different, alright?" he said. "My fiancé and I get a little rough sometimes. I don't have to chart out all the intimate details for you, do I?"

"Depends on how quickly you want to get rid of us," I said.

His mouth curled into a frown. Good, he was finally rattled.

"Let's start being honest with each other." Stan finally spoke up, his voice gentle, very good-cop. "You told a friend you fell down the stairs. Why?"

He paused for maybe half a second, then let his one good eye drift shut. "Chris ratted me out," he said tonelessly.

Stan didn't deny it. "He's worried about you."

"Oh, is that what he said? Did he mention that he's had a grudge against my fiancé for eighteen years, and would do anything to get him kicked out of my life? Chris is bored, that's all. He's used to boot camp and war. When he can't find any drama to thrive on, he starts making things up."

"Tell us what really happened," Stan urged. "You got mugged, fell down the stairs, what?"

"I don't know. Both. Neither."

Stan's expression became faintly confused. In our few previous investigations of domestic conflicts, the women had seamless excuses, detailed down to the very "sharp chair" they bumped into. Now that his first excuse had fallen through, this guy wasn't even trying. He rubbed a hand disinterestedly through his damp blonde hair, the strands drying into tiny curls. Bruises layered his neck and the ridges of exposed collarbone, unmistakably hand-shaped.

"Listen, Mr. Norman, we've seen plenty of falls down the stairs," I said. "And we're not stupid enough to believe they leave fingerprints."

Norman simply stared at me with his one good eye, waiting patiently. I knew a challenge when I saw it. He was maybe a few inches below average height, slender and cultured, but there was an intensity in his face that threw my whole "hardcore cop" act off kilter. He was no damsel in distress, and he was certainly not impressed by our badges.

"Is that all?" he said finally.

"Who's doing this to you?" Stan asked softly.

That made Norman blink. He paused for a long moment, squinting at Stan through his puffy eyes. Sizing up his frat boy charm. "It's honestly nothing to worry about," he said at last, abruptly dropping his strange, assumed roughness. "Really…Christophe was just worried because we haven't seen each other in a while. He doesn't understand. My fiancé and I share mutual consent, and a great deal of trust."

I could play the concerned card just as well as Stan. "That might be the case," I said. "Even so, masochism is one thing, but there's nothing tender about the ICU."

Norman dropped his eyes.

"Listen, I'm really tired of talking," he said finally. "I'm grateful for your concern, but I've got it handled, and I'm not the spokesperson for Battered Wives Anonymous. Either drop it, or come back with evidence."

"Mr. Norman-" Stan began.

"Send me a postcard from the station," Norman said evenly.

The subject was clearly closed. I sighed and stood up, and after a few seconds, Stan followed suit. He lingered at the door, turning around to offer his hand. "Our names are Marsh and McCormick," he repeated, sounding a little desperate. "Please feel free to talk to us, if not now, when you feel ready."

"M-Marsh and McCormick. I…won't forget." Something in Norman's face had changed. After a long moment, he slowly reached out and shook Stan's hand, perhaps recognizing the move for its emotional significance-we were offering him a way out of his relationship, his dollhouse, his job as the free maid service. He and Stan held the gesture for a beat longer than necessary. His uninjured eye was filled with inestimable sadness, heartbreaking in its clarity. I was just gearing up to reiterate our concern when Norman abruptly pulled back and shut the door. Click, click, click. The army of locks fell back into place.

Stan and I waited for a few seconds before returning to the patrol car and backing out into the street, heading again into the freedom of our wide-open town.

* * *

"That didn't go very well, did it," I said.

Stan made no response. He was staring pensively out his rolled-up window, watching the trees by the road pass in soft, autumnal blurs. He'd put on his glasses to hide his eyes, but even in profile, I could sense his distress. His fingernails tapped incessantly on the dashboard. The red light of sunset flashed briefly across his lenses, catching the frustrated lines between his eyebrows.

"Stan, we don't always get them the first time," I reminded him gently. "He'll slip up eventually. They always do."

Silence. I didn't know if he had even heard me. I drove down a few more blocks before he finally spoke up, his voice low and upset.

"He's our age. Norman is our age, Kenny, about twenty-six years old, and his 'career' is scrubbing counters in a plastic house for a man who put him in the hospital. Did you see him? No wonder Christophe freaked out. 'Fell down the stairs,' what the hell. A hundred flights, maybe, and even that wouldn't explain the hand-shaped bruises on his neck and shoulders."

"I'm worried about his wrists, too," I said. "That means he was being restrained."

"What? I should've worn my glasses. I didn't even see his wrists. Fuck!" He lashed out involuntarily with his feet, knocking the glove compartment open. Paperwork spilled out onto the car floor. He swore softly and bit his lip, stooping to scoop the files back into place.

We stopped at a four-way intersection. No one was coming. I put the car in park and turned to him, waiting until he'd looked up at me before speaking. "I need you to calm down," I said, trying to sound professional, but it came out a lot edgier than I'd intended. "You're the most passionate person in the precinct, and I want you on this case with me, but not if it's going to screw you up. I'm upset, too. I really am. That's why I need a partner who won't flip out if things get ugly."

"They couldn't get much uglier," Stan said. He let out a slow breath, raking his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry for getting so emotional. I know this is our job, but it still…it really…"

"Blows," I said simply. "I know."

He met my gaze again. His eyes glittered in the growing darkness, achingly blue. "I always knew this was the danger of working in a quiet town. I've tried to prepare myself for the possibility of something bigger than speeding tickets or tagging, but the reality of it is so much bigger than the books can tell you. That murder-suicide nearly got me. The only thing that kept me working was the realization that those situations are few and far between. See, I don't stare many abuse victims in the face, Kenny. I didn't plan around it like I should've. I'll fight for justice, and I swear I'll do a good job, but…I won't turn down deskwork."

I knew exactly what he meant. There were days when I was thrilled to sit in my office, just because it meant nothing bigger was happening. As far as I knew, one didn't really take a law enforcement job for the action; you took it _despite_ it. I didn't want the fanfare of shootouts and murder scenes. Quiet morality was just as fulfilling.

"Kenny, you're my best friend," Stan said suddenly.

I looked at him, startled. I knew it, he knew it, but he'd never actually vocalized it. I was sure the phrase had been stricken from his vocabulary years ago, meant for only one person…a person who also happened to be his lover and his soulmate. Tagged with my name, the words sounded so foreign. Not quite as deep. I studied Stan for a long time, feeling an inexplicable wave of sadness rush through me.

"You're my best friend, too," I said.

He quickly patted my hand. I brushed off the perfunctory gesture and pulled him into a rough hug, feeling the coarse six 'o clock stubble on his cheek. He was tired enough to relax into the embrace, it had been such a long day, but I felt him tensing up instead. Still the same old Stan. Relentless ghosts still roamed between us, repelling him with ten years of incomplete history.

"They had the same hands," he whispered into my shoulder.

I frowned. Before I could process the comment, my pager went off, chirping shrilly in the silence. I plucked it off my belt loop and squinted at the message, scanned it twice. By the second read-through, my body had grown cold with realization. "Oh, god."

"What?" Stan demanded. "Who's it from?"

"Dawson," I said. I hauled the car into reverse, swinging around into the empty intersection. "Christophe was hit by a truck when he stepped out of the police station. He's in the ICU at Hell's Pass. They're not sure if he's going to make it."

I flipped on the sirens. Stan refastened his seatbelt, and I floored it towards the hospital, tearing into the night on a trail of red and blue.

* * *

Nearly four hours had passed before they finally rolled him out of the ER. The gurney was dark with blood, and even from my place in the hallway, I could see the ugly setting pins protruding from his shattered limbs. He was gasping through an oxygen mask, barely conscious. Stan turned away. I touched his elbow quickly, and he when he opened his eyes again, they were filled with furious resolve.

"It was no accident," Dawson had told us, standing outside and chain-smoking with compulsive rapidity. His hands were trembling, but his face was dark with loathing. "The bastard _swerved_ to hit him. He backed over him _twice_. Fucking miracle that the kid knew what to do; kept pulling the vital parts out of the way, even when his legs were crushed. I dropped my work and ran at the truck, screaming, and the driver peeled outta there. We've got his treads and some surveillance footage. Harris is running them now." He dragged too deep on his cigarette and choked, coughing out the smoke. "Ugliest thing I ever saw," he finished, viciously grinding the butt beneath one booted heel.

Stan and I were the only ones around when Christophe finally emerged from surgery. Stan got to the attending doctor before I did, his stride strong and purposeful. "South Park Police," he said, holding up his badge. "We need to talk to the patient."

"Absolutely not," said the doctor. "We've got him pumped with anesthetics. There's no way he's cognizant enough to answer your questions, if he even pulls through the night."

Stan's eyes didn't waver. "Perhaps your patient has something to say to us, then."

The doctor snorted. "Such as?"

"You think he survived this just so he could roll over and die in one of your cheap ass hospital beds?" I said, cottoning on to Stan's strategy. "He has information for us. He might even have the guy's name. Obviously, we'll back off if he's not well enough to speak, but we need to give him that chance. If he dies without telling us what he knows, it's all on your conscience. The murder _and _the murderer."

The doctor's mouth had thinned to a tiny line. "Room 211," he said finally, angrily. "But if you push him too hard, I'm throwing you out."

"Thanks," Stan said, turning toward the indicated hall. I strolled after him, casting a quick, appreciative wave over my shoulder as the doors swung shut behind us.

"Pigs," the doctor muttered.

"Oink, oink," said Stan. He reached 211 before I did and opened the door after a few calming breaths, drawing the blinds so no one could look in on us. I started to turn on the light, then decided against it. The green glow of the heart monitor sufficiently illuminated the room.

It was the second time today we'd seen someone who'd been seriously injured, but at least time had softened some of Norman's wounds. Christophe's face was a mess. His jaw was wired shut, swollen in strange shapes, and even the dim lighting couldn't mask the devastation of his body. His legs were shattered. The metal supports screwed into his shins had more shape than the bones themselves did. He was still bleeding heavily through the gauze and makeshift casting, and each joint seemed to operate separately from the other, as if the surgeons had reconstructed him incorrectly. Stan and I stared at him in silence, and he stared back at us through half-lidded eyes, each breath as shakily labored as a sob.

"Christophe, Jesus," I said softly. "Are we glad to see you."

His breath rasped through his chapped lips in response. Bloody gauze peeked out from the corners of his mouth; I imagined he had lost a few teeth. After a moment's hesitation, I pulled a little closer and adjusted his pillows, dimly realizing the absurdity of such a trivial action.

"Can you move?" Stan asked, stepping forward.

In closer proximity, I thought I saw him lift his chin a fraction of an inch. He hissed in pain. After what seemed like an endless moment of agonized immobility, the sheets rustled, tenting near his side as he slowly managed to raise one trembling finger. Stan touched his hand, then leaned forward to mop the sweat off his face with his handkerchief. The moisture on Stan's clean linen was confusingly poignant. I felt a lump rise in my throat, then forced it away.

"We need to talk to you. We need to hear what you have to say. Can you stay with us for just a little longer?"

Christophe strained against the wires, grunting. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and blossomed into the collar of his hospital gown. The muscles in his arms jumped as he tried to move his hand again, limbs anchored in heavy plaster casts, his entire body shaking with the effort. He let out a desperate, frustrated growl. Furious tears flickered in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, we'll come back," I said. "The doctor was right. You've got to rest."

"Nnn." He tried to speak through his teeth. The Vicodin had thickened his accent even further, and what issued from between his clamped jaws was little more than a series of urgent 'z' sounds. I turned to Stan, feeling helpless.

Stan stared at him for a long time, reading his expression, the anxiety in his eyes. God, Christophe looked too lucid to be properly drugged up-I wanted to shake down the medical staff and force them to give him a morphine drip, better pills, anything to help him escape his crushed body. It was clear that he'd had military training. Coupled with an unbelievably powerful resolve, Christophe managed to convey more strength through blinking than I ever could in any action, whether or not I was the one with the badge and the gun. Every move seemed deliberate. Even the tiny spasms in his hands spoke volumes, and Stan watched him intently, sitting perfectly still.

"We know that car was supposed to kill you," he said finally. "This has something to do with what you told us at the station."

Yes, I thought. Yes, of fucking course. The two biggest crimes in more than ten months, on the same day, involving the same person. There had to be some correlation. Christophe's voice jumped half an octave in confirmation. More blood slipped from between his swollen lips, and Stan dabbed it away gingerly, his own face darkening with realization.

"It was him, wasn't it?"

"Who?" I asked.

"Him. The guy in his report. Norman's fiancé."

Reaction was immediate. Christophe nearly sobbed his affirmative, quaking with relief, and I felt my jaw go slack as I digested all the implications. Everything pointed to one fact: our vic's faceless abuser was a fucking psycho. Thanks to Christophe's resilience, we had the bastard for vehicular manslaughter and attempted murder, even if Norman seemed willing to let him get away with domestic violence. All we needed was a name, which was easily obtainable through the grapevine. Criminals didn't hide well in small towns. Ironic as it was, ties of friendship served beautifully as tripwires.

"You've been an incredible help," Stan said to Christophe, wiping his face off one last time. "We know you're trying to tell us more. Don't worry; we'll be back."

Stan stood up. I readjusted Christophe's blankets, trying to convey my gratitude in my eyes, then followed Stan towards the exit. Christophe whispered something as we left.

Neither our language barrier nor the wires could change the sound of a 'thank you.'

"We've got to get back to Norman's," Stan said.

The two of us moved briskly down the corridor. He was paging Harris while I fumbled through my pocket book, searching for my rarely-used notes on arrest protocol. Neither of us had ever been on a case that necessitated more than a slap on the wrist. I felt ready; I felt terrified. Adrenaline raced through me, making me lightheaded. "We're pulling this guy on suspicion, that's it," I said. "It's a good defense, but until we get an official statement from Christophe or Norman, it's all conjecture."

"It has to be enough," Stan hissed. "Shit, if he gets away…"

"I know, I know. Just don't drop your guard, and watch your step."

I was talking as we rounded a corner, turned towards Stan, and I barely got that last sentence out before I crashed full-tilt into someone hauling ass in the opposite direction. The other figure only staggered a little, but I caromed off his sturdier form and tripped backwards over Stan's foot. I landed spectacularly on my ass. My notes flew everywhere. Stan gallantly tried to help me up, but his barely repressed grin prevented me from accepting his assistance. I thrashed back up to a standing position, my face flaming.

"Say it," I growled. "Comment on the irony, Stanley-Norman, I just dare you."

"I fail to see the irony, Detective Grace," he said calmly. He waved to the guy I'd bumped into, already moving past us. "Sorry about that, sir."

"Fine," the guy said carelessly.

I started to snap at Stan and stopped short, peering behind him in shock. There was something disturbingly familiar in the stranger's walk, his inflections, even the fussy part in his hair. A faint mixture of laundry detergent and bergamot followed the air behind him. Neither scent meant anything by itself, but the combination made my heart pound in my chest, igniting a thousand memories between sixth grade and high school graduation. Barbeques and sleepovers. Football games. Shopping. Hell, I had been there when he picked out that cologne.

Stan's smile faded as he too belatedly placed the man's voice, wheeling around to confirm his suspicions. He gasped sharply, then choked himself off. His hands curled into shaking fists.

Christ.

"Eric Cartman," I said numbly.

"Who the fuck wants to know?" Eric snapped.

He paused halfway down the hall and tossed an impatient glance back over his shoulder. His irritated expression slowly turned into shock as he recognized us. There was a long moment of silence as he absorbed our adult appearances-Stan's slicked-back hair and wire frame glasses, my freshly washed slacks, the healthy weight I'd gained from finally eating regular meals. He himself had changed even more drastically. His bulk had redistributed itself. My first impression was of his sheer enormity-he was a solid six feet of pure substance, towering above even Stan's respectable five-eleven. I felt disoriented staring at his button-up shirt and office-regulation tie. Eric Cartman feeding the corporate machine in a cubicle…I could not digest that. Suddenly, everything seemed to make very little sense.

_We're missing one_, I thought dimly. My mind mulled briefly over the curves of a wicked smile, red hair and tiny, deft hands. Stan never wanted to talk about him, but he was there. He was always there.

The three of us held our ground in the long hallway, not moving, bound together by a fourth invisible presence.

"Holy shit," Eric said finally.

Half of me wanted to embrace him and invite him out for drinks. The other half was acutely aware of the empty eight years between us. He had disappeared from South Park shortly after graduation, not a call, not a letter, not one single fucking word. I'd given up on him after six months; his unexpected disappearance was that hurtful and complete. Stan lost interest much more quickly. He stared at Eric with wide, disbelieving eyes, and Eric stared back, expressionless.

"It's been a while, hasn't it," I said at last, clumsy from shock.

"Right," said Eric slowly. "You guys-cops, huh? Get tired of playing laundromat owner?"

An old joke. It made me uneasy; I had to force a smile. "No. Craig and Thomas took over the business. And where have you…?"

"I work for an insurance company in downtown Denver. This French guy-he's my client."

"Small world."

"Not really. The commute is a bitch."

"So you live around here, then," said Stan.

Eric shifted. "Yeah. I've got a place not far from my old house. It's…strange that we haven't run into each other before today."

I bobbed my head in agreement. Stan followed suit, and after a moment, Eric gave his own brisk nod. We stared at each other in silence long enough for me to feel the blood pooling in my extremities. Then, without consciously realizing I was going to move, I bridged the gap between us in three rapid steps and shoved Eric hard against the wall. "So where the fuck did you go?" I demanded, my body tingling with rage.

"McCormick," someone said sharply.

Stan and I whirled. I quickly dropped Eric's lapels. Dawson had returned from his lengthy smoke break, holding the empty pack in one hand and his pager in another. He eyed me and Eric suspiciously, evaluating our defensive postures.

"Old friend of yours?" he asked delicately.

I cast a sidelong glance at Eric, gritting my teeth. I didn't want to call him my friend after the shit he had pulled, but I couldn't be shaking down random citizens in front of a senior officer, either. "Yes, sir, an old classmate," I said finally, ignoring Eric's faint smirk. "The two of us were just…catching up."

"Ah." Dawson waited a few seconds to hear his side of the story, but Eric seemed content with the excuse. Dawson turned back to me. "Harris got your page, and he's on his way to pick up the vic's friend, Mr. Norman. We need Marsh back at the station to do questioning."

They always utilized Stan as the nice guy in their good-cop-bad-cop interrogation duos. I wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or grateful. "So I'm done for the night?"

"We'll call if we need you to run names, but I doubt we'll get anything useful," Dawson said. "If that kid Christophe was any indication, he and his friends are hiding something bigger than a domestic spat."

Stan brushed by Eric without looking at him, following Dawson down the hall and out into the parking lot. I turned back to Eric, my gaze even. "We'll talk later," I said briskly, knowing it wasn't true. If there were to be any amends, they would start with him. I was furious. The past had just come up and slapped me in the face, and I didn't appreciate feeling like the butt end of someone's joke.

"You bet," he agreed. His eyes bore holes in mine, and he broke into a strange, calm smile, slow and unashamed. "Catch you on the flipside, Five-O."

* * *

Stan called me shortly after midnight, as I was finally toeing off my shoes. "We caught up with Norman and released him after he gave us a name for his fiancé," he said. His voice sounded strangely tight, probably from exhaustion. I could relate. "It was a wild goose chase-we sure don't have a 'Theodore Richards' here on file in South Park, where he allegedly set up residency. Harris is sending me home. We're going to have to pick this up tomorrow. If we keep harassing Norman, his lawyer will press charges, and it'll be easy enough to write off Christophe's accusation as a tired police force grasping for straws. Frankly, that's a pretty accurate observation right now."

"We can't force Norman to accept our help, or provide us with any," I said, yawning. "When the domestic abuse case ties into the accident, fine, but Christophe is our primary concern right now."

"So we just let the nameless fiancé walk away," said Stan.

"I said 'when' they come together. Not 'if.' We'll work it out sooner or later."

"Sooner, I hope, because we just let someone walk right back into the arms of an abuser and possible murderer. Did you see him, Kenny? Did you see Christophe? This is not okay with me. It shouldn't be okay with _anyone_."

I sighed, slowly rolling into my bed with my clothes on. A headache throbbed steadily in my temples. "Stan, I care. I really do. I'm just not noble enough to lose sleep over this after working for seventeen hours straight. This job is as much about discretion as it is dedication. Pick and choose your battles-normal people just don't have the energy to fight them all."

Stan was silent on the other end of the line.

"Get some rest, I mean it," I said, and hung up.

Burying my head in a pillow was like finally reaching heaven. What a fucking day. A hit-and-run murder attempt, an old companion, a close-mouthed boyfriend, and an abusive spouse who didn't even have an identity yet. Of course, it all had to happen in perfect South Park tradition: within the same twenty-four hour time period. Fatigue gnawed at my body. I felt like I was about fifty years old, barely able to turn off my beside lamp.

I sighed and wrapped myself in my sheets. Sleep came immediately, easily. It was starting to rain outside. But I'm not out there, I thought, with half-conscious relief. Thank God. I'm safe at home, falling asleep. I'm racing back into the nightmares of my past. I can never escape the memories in my subconscious; they're forcing me to relive the moments that Stan will not let me talk about. I'm dodging people in the hallways of Park County High School, my best friend huffing behind me, minute-bells ringing. I'm laughing. I'm careless. I'm…

I'm…

_I'm fifteen years old._

"_Go, go!" I shout, ushering Eric into the classroom, which is finally empty after the pre-lunch lessons. The music room is the perfect place for prank-fodder-there are cymbals, metronomes, tape recorders and wire stands, everything we need to wreak havoc in seventh-period lecture hall. We waste no time pulling boxes off the shelves. I find an old bike horn and squeeze it right in Eric's face. It honks loudly. He nearly topples over in surprise, noisily dropping an armful of sheet music._

"_Goddamn it, Kenny!"_

_I shush him, trying hard to contain my laughter. He grumbles, but I can see that he's as excited as I am. After all these years, the prospect of trouble-making still hasn't lost its novelty; the two of us will pick a dozen locks and steal and cheat just for the chance to cause a little chaos. Eric stuffs maracas into his backpack, his head turned slightly so he can hear the people walking by in the hallways. He's better at this shit than I am. He was breaking and entering years before I joined his first heist. So when he stiffens abruptly, I drop everything and look at him, immediately trusting his instinct._

"_What is it?"_

"_Someone's coming," he says._

_He may be smarter, but I'm faster. I grab his collar and haul his protesting ass backwards into the closet, kicking the door shut half a second before two people stumble in. The slits are too narrow to make them out in the darkness. Grinning at each other in relief, Eric and I lean forward and squint as they stagger towards the desk. They're tugging at each other with fevered desperation, breath coming in gasps, shedding clothes with every step._

"_Fuckin' peepshow," Eric whispers._

"_Hell yes," I whisper back._

"_Should we bail before they reach second base, or right in the middle?"_

_I laugh into my hands. I'm about to respond when one of the shapes moans audibly._

"_Stan," it breathes, low and sultry._

_I freeze. Eric freezes. Then he lifts one hand and claws the slits in the door open wider, flooding the closet with new light. The hinges creak. I flail wordlessly, panicked, but our secret lovers are too preoccupied to notice-they're perched on the podium now, kissing slowly and luxuriously. My heart pounds in my chest as I recognize the redhead's graceful hands, the other's letter jacket and shaggy black hair. Incredible. Somehow, I'm simultaneously shocked and utterly unsurprised. Something poignant flutters in my chest._

_It's Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski._

"_I'll be damned," I say softly. "Look at 'em go."_

_Stan has both hands under Kyle's shirt. Kyle is urging him closer, teasing his fingers across the exposed skin where Stan's jacket has hiked up. "Love you," he whispers, and I hear Stan mumble it back before they bring their mouths back together. God, they actually close their eyes when they kiss. They touch each other tenderly and ask permission, fighting back their obvious fervor in lieu of gentility._

_My own breathing becomes a little ragged, and I sit back, feeling nervous. There should be something weird about seeing two of my best friends making out between classes, but there simply isn't-their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, groin to groin, legs and arms interlocking to form a single pulsating entity. They look so natural. It's nothing like the Catholic horror stories we hear from Father Maxi in church; they're too beautiful to be a sin. I turn away as Stan strips off his shirt and positions Kyle carefully above his hips. I can watch porn for days, but this isn't an afternoon quickie. Kyle is saying his name over and over, like a prayer._

_They're making love. And love is the one thing that I would never intentionally intrude on._

_It's only then that I remember Eric._

_He's watching them intensely, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His mouth is twisted and his breathing is labored. I hear a rasping noise, and when I look down, I see his fingers curling into fists, then unraveling, knotting the coarse fabric of his jeans not two inches from his obvious arousal. He makes no move to relieve himself._

"_Eric?" I whisper._

"_It's fucking disgusting," he hisses. "None of it is right."_

_I don't know what to say. Stan and Kyle cry out in our silence, synchronized in their oblivious pleasure. The sound makes Eric's face curl into a sneer again. He watches them. His fingernails cut crescent moons into his palms, and he sits there with the blood swelling into beads above the skin, but he doesn't look away._

"_If it's grossing you out-" I begin, and he silences me by grabbing my wrist and fucking twisting. I yell in pain just as Stan murmurs something. I scramble away from Eric when he finally lets go, furiously rubbing my injured arm. "What the fuck!" I demand._

_He doesn't respond._

_I kick him as hard as I can._

_He just scoots away and opens the closet blinds a little more._

_That's when I realize where he's looking._

_It's Kyle. He's watching Kyle move rhythmically against Stan, hungrily charting the rise and fall of his shoulders as he gasps for breath. Stan doesn't exist to him. Only Kyle, his peaceful face visible in profile, flicking red curls out of his eyes every time they pause to rest. "It's okay," he murmurs to Stan, and his voice is husky and smooth, with none of the typical shrillness he adapts whenever he's within a few feet of Eric. I forget Eric has never heard him like this. He quietly huffs for breath, and a shadow darkens his expression._

"_Eric," I say._

"_I could do better," Eric snarls._

_I get a chill. "Neither of them seems too experienced, sure, but they're still-"_

"_He doesn't deserve him," he interrupts._

_Kyle stills in Stan's arms, buries his mouth against his neck, and softly gasps his release. Stan follows suit a second later with a little less finesse, feverishly chanting his name. They're silent for a long time. Kyle recovers first and moves away, sorting through their abandoned clothing. Stan sits up very slowly, still winded. "I love you, Ky," he manages, clumsily fingering a lock of his hair. "Love you. And I'm not just saying…I mean, this is more than…"_

"_Yeah," Kyle says, kissing his knuckles. "Me too."_

_And then they're quickly putting themselves back in order, and the one-minute bells are going off, and Eric and I are still sitting numbly in the cramped closet. My wrist still aches; I'm terrified to move. Eric's hand is on the inside handle and I can't work up the nerve to push past him. His breath is still ragged. "They don't love each other," he whispers, turning on me viciously. I flinch away. "Stan's looking for a convenient fuck because Wendy won't put out, and Kyle's just desperate. I'd do better. I could…"_

"_I'm going to study hall," Stan says. "You?"_

_Kyle sighs. "Got a chemistry test. Send me a postcard from the free world, will you?"_

"_The science department doesn't allow mail from outsiders," Stan replies, grinning, and Kyle hits him. A final kiss, and they disappear together into the noise of the school passing period._

_The final bells ring._

_Eric still hasn't moved._

_

* * *

_

I woke up gasping. My pager was beeping somewhere in the darkness, and rain had become torrential outside my window. I thrashed out of my sheets. They were sticking to my skin, cold and clammy, and even as I groped for my nightstand in the dark, my heart beat heavily in my throat.

How could I not have seen it? Like me and Eric and Stan, his mannerisms were unmistakable. The way he walked, the sarcastic lilt of his voice, the eyes, the mouth, the hands. The ammonia Stan had smelled was not fertilizer, it was fucking _hair dye_. The gold could mask original color, but not the wild, distinct curls around his face-my only excuse was the bruising, which had swollen him beyond immediate recognition. I pictured Norman with that bag of frozen peas against his cheek. Stitches or not, one distinct eye had been visible, and now I remembered where I had seen that dark, subtle green and the familiar sweep of lashes. It was someone so close to me that I couldn't even see him.

Norman. Kyle.

I finally found my pager. The new message lit up the screen, a few words from Harris, hastily typed in shorthand. I only needed to read the first two words before leaping from bed, jamming my aching feet back into shoes I'd kicked off not an hour ago, pausing only to snatch my keys off the bedside table on my way out the door.

_GO NOW. 187, MRDER, BODY CNFRMED. 21230 E BNZA CR_.

Outside, lighting tore patterns in the sky.

* * *

I still had the second patrol car. I was first on the scene, my sirens lighting up the evening, halfway up the driveway when Murphy pulled up into the lawn beside me. He vaulted out of the front seat with his gun drawn, rain dripping down his face. "Backup's on its way," he said, pushing ahead. "Head down, weapon out. Keep it cool."

I drew my own gun and released the safety latch for the first time in my career. The metal felt cold and solid in my hands, steady. Murphy knocked twice before taking a step backwards and cracking the door open with a few well-placed kicks. Only a few chains had been in place; all the bolts were undone. "South Park Police!" I shouted, lunging into the revealed space with my gun brandished. No response. Murphy groped for a switch and flooded the living room with stark yellow light. The place was still immaculate. The only items out of place were the white sneakers, sitting on the rug instead of in their neat row behind the couch.

Murphy grabbed his transceiver off his belt. "Clear," he reported.

A roar of static, then Harris's voice, garbled over the distance: "Proceed, perp was seen in the bedroom by a neighbor. East end of the house."

Murphy gestured me ahead. We moved cagily down the hall, back-to-back, me covering the rear while he peered forward into the darkness. Nerves jumped in my fingers. Thunder boomed above us, rattling the roof. Murphy braced a flashlight against his forearm and turned when we hit a wall, guarding my back so I could turn. "There," he whispered, pointing to a fan of light coming from underneath a closed door. As we watched, shadows passed, and the door creaked open partway. The muffled sound of someone sobbing escaped through the space.

"Police!" I yelled again. There was no response.

"Come out with your hands on your head!" Murphy ordered, also to no avail. He waited for a few seconds, then nodded me forward. We crept up to the door. "I'll give a three-count," he mouthed, barely audible. "Are you ready?"

I sucked in a deep breath. The image of Kyle Broflovski lying dead on the floor flooded my mind briefly, terrifying in its clarity, and I forced myself to blink it away. Mustering up every bit of courage I had, I gave Murphy a curt nod.

He responded by holding up a finger. One.

Two.

Three.

He burst through the door. I ducked under his arm with my gun drawn, fixating on the first movement I saw, the rustling of the curtains in the corner. The sweet, cloying smell of iron hit me in a wave. The scene slowly dawned on me. I gagged into the crook of my elbow, unable to believe what I was seeing.

Eric Cartman's body lay prone on the carpet. The blood was everywhere-his hair, the bedspread, the walls, soaking the carpet in a two foot radius around his fatal wounds. His throat had been slashed. Stab marks had torn his stomach to shreds, and his blue button-up shirt was a splash of red, shockingly bright against the bedroom's soft yellow décor. Murphy swore and knelt beside him, groping futilely for a pulse. I could no longer feel my body. When something stirred to the side, I whirled reflexively, training my gun on the jerky sign of motion.

Mr. Norman, incognito. Kyle Broflovski, trembling and bottle-blond, his distinctive small hands soaked in Eric's blood.

"Against the wall, Kyle," I said numbly.

He shuddered violently. The kitchen knife was at his feet, skewered deep into the carpet. "Kenny?" he whispered.

"_Against the wall_!"

Slowly, Kyle obliged. I waited until he had stilled before stepping over Eric's body and seizing his shoulder, forcefully turning him around and yanking his wrists behind him. He held himself immobile as I secured the cuffs. My trembling fingers kept sliding in the blood; it took me a few tries to get them latched properly. I kept my grip on his arms and hauled him around the other side of the bed, where he didn't have the advantage of a small space.

Kyle just looked down at Eric, choked, and made a soft whimpering noise in the back of his throat.

"Dead," Murphy reported uselessly.

I found myself staring at the bruises on Kyle's face. His shirt had slipped down over one shoulder, revealing the huge, dark handprints on his neck and forearm.

"It's over," he moaned. "It's over."

Below us, Eric's large fingers contracted with the onset of rigor mortis. I looked at him. Then I looked back at Kyle's neck. My throat closed up as something fell into place. I sagged against the wall, my thoughts racing, trying to recast this recent domestic abuse case with two of my childhood's most familiar faces. I couldn't do it. _It didn't make any sense_.

"No," I whispered. "No way, I-"

"Detective McCormick, I'd like you to meet my fiancé," Kyle said rapidly. "His name is Eric T. Cartman. You might've gone to school with him, actually; when was your graduation year?"

I turned to him. "But-how the fuck _could_ you?"

Kyle just looked at me, his stitched mouth pulled into a faint smile. Tears streamed down his face, and I realized with shock that he had never been crying. He was _laughing._ His hands were soaked in blood, and he was laughing. Hysterically.

"Today is the best day of my life! _Ten years_, Kenny. For ten years, I cooked his meals, cleaned his house, did his dirty fucking laundry. Yesterday night, I _begged_ him to have sex with me because I was that starved for human contact. I actually became what he's always wanted me to be-imagine it, me, a _toy_, something that just bakes and cleans and sucks. Do you want to know where I've been all this time? I've been here, the laundromat, the grocery store, and church. Four blocks. That's all. Four blocks in _ten. Fucking. Years._"

Pure disgust churned in my stomach. "No. _No_."

"I'm finally going to sleep for the first time since _graduation_," Kyle sobbed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm going to sleep and not have to worry about feeling his hands on me in the middle of the night!"

Brought back to attention, Murphy stood up and wrenched Kyle forward by the arm. I started to protest before remembering my professional obligations: Kyle was a murderer, now, not a friend who'd completely disappeared a full decade ago. I had to look away, fighting not to puke. Murphy knotted a hand in his freshly-dyed hair and began forcibly leading him outside. Kyle was still laughing and crying.

Murphy did not pause at the door to let Kyle put on shoes, and the three of us walked into the rain, bathed in flashing red and blue light. Our small police force was here in its entirety. Harris was rolling out the yellow tape, Barbrady and Franks were readying a car for criminal transport. People were stepping out of their houses, murmuring, and Dawson was doing his best to dispel the growing crowd. "Nothing to see," he kept saying. "Go back to bed, nothing to see here."

"You have the right to remain silent," Murphy said to Kyle, leading him to the waiting arrest vehicle. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have said attorney present during your questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at government expense."

Kyle looked at me. He had calmed down. "Kenny," he said, very softly.

"What?"

"I really missed you," he said.

Murphy forced him into the back of the car and slammed the door shut. I stared at Kyle through the rain-beaded window, and he held my gaze with sober exhaustion until Murphy drove him off into the night, sirens blaring. Stinging tears blurred my vision. The night slowly melted into a soft kaleidoscope of color. I sat down heavily on the sidewalk, my body aching with confusion, struggling to make any sort of sense out of what had just happened.

The last thing I remember from that night was Stan, his face finally flooded with recognition, standing numbly on the curb as the rain poured down over his defenseless form.

* * *

End of part one

* * *

With the exception of a few paragraphs, this was written entirely in class. And I wonder why I'm poorly prepared for my midterms?

If you made it through this, thank you so, so much. Thanks also to everyone who tried; I really appreciate it.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I'm so sorry, I can't finish this story in two parts. It'll have to be a trilogy. It sucks, because there were so many scenes that didn't make it into this chapter, but it's really nice to have seventy percent of the next update already finished! Expect it waaay sooner than four months. That is fucking ridiculous. Please forgive me; my personal life went haywire right after I made all these writing commitments. (This was also supposed to be updated in time for SekritOMG's birthday, but it makes a horrible gift, whoops. So I have got to think of something else to do now.)

Thank you all _so much _for the reviews-I didn't deserve such a generous response, and I'll try hard to make this fic worthy of all the time it takes to read it, holy shit.

Warnings: language, contrived cop drama, mentions of assault, melodramatics, too much verbosity and too few answers. I cut this part right before the huge Kyle Tells All scene, but things come together in the last part, I swear! I am so excited for the next chapter, which will hopefully be way better than this one! Explicit pairings are still StanxKyle, CraigxThomas, DamienxPip, and the non-con CartmanxKyle.

Oh, and hey, Harris got named this season! I had him as "James" in the first chapter. Now he is Mitch. I will edit that first thing tomorrow.

I will try to get back to all reviews this time. Damn it, I always say that. I claim it's because I'm lazy, but I'm really just shy. Everyone here is so damn nice. Please, feel totally free to hit me up with hardcore concrit! You are all so amazing.

* * *

Lex Talionis

* * *

The station was buzzing with activity. North Park's diminutive police force had arrived in a single shabby car, followed shortly by the Park County precinct, with Harrison Yates leading a six-vehicle vanguard of senior detectives. Their fanfare demolished our remaining structure. Johnson was ordered from his own lab, and Franks and Barbrady were pulled entirely from the duty roster. We were steadily losing control over our own case. Yates was in the process of bullying me out of my paperwork when Harris stepped into the room, interposing himself with startling coldness.

"McCormick, wait outside my office," he said flatly. "Yates and I clearly need to have a discussion about local precedence over neighborhood crimes."

"C'mon, Mitch, what does a small town know about running a murder investigation?" Yates challenged, throwing me an uninterested look. "Take this kid. He's booked a few speeders, maybe, busted a dropout or two for possession. Does he drive, yet? I mean, you still have him sitting on phonebooks or what?"

I'd been halfway out the door, heartsick to my breaking point. "Eat shit!" I yelled, starting back into the room.

Harris merely blocked me with one arm, apparently willing to overlook my breech of conduct. "What have you managed to get out of our perp, Yates? This Mr. Norman? I understand he's been living under a pseudonym. Have you discovered his legal name?"

Yates idled, his hands on his hips. "We're…working on it."

"You're working on it. Interesting. My team has already run it."

Silence.

"Listen, pal," said Harris. "I didn't have to take South Park under your jurisdiction. They offered me Arapahoe. But I'm here for the people, alright, these people are _my_ business, and that type of intimacy is invaluable in a case like this. We're hurting, but we're getting it done." He glanced at me briefly over his shoulder, silently and respectfully acknowledging my grief. His eyes were so hard. "You don't get to spit on my players, Yates. Any of them."

Yates just stood there without speaking, halfway turned towards the windows. Rain beaded softly on the panes, reflecting subtle patterns across his face every time lightning flashed in the distance. His expression was repentant, but stubborn.

Harris looked at me and smiled tiredly. "Meet me outside my office."

I hesitated. "Sir-"

"Go on, Kenny. Please."

I left the room and walked around the side of the counter, moving down the narrow hallway that lead past the forensic lab windows. Harris had already pulled Park County out of the department. Johnson was carefully labeling blood films on his minimal counter space, pausing occasionally to reference the glossy mural of photographs he'd laid across the table. They were already numbered and labeled. A few had been tagged with red stickers, and I didn't have to get too close to see that they all sported copious amounts of spatter. Eric Cartman's life streaming thickly down his own walls. I turned away as my stomach gave an uneasy lurch, clasping my hands quickly over my mouth.

The night Kyle had left, I had been sick with the flu. I barely remembered his goodbye-he had crawled through the window at nearly three in the morning, pressed his lips to my burning forehead, and mumbled something unintelligible about a student exchange program. I immediately dismissed it as delirium: why the hell would Kyle be sobbing, Kyle Broflovski, who had his whole privileged life ahead of him? Why was he so cold, so terrified? He'd hugged his trembling body against mine before pushing the pane open again, letting in a soft breath of powder that made me shiver. His tears were damp and freezing on my face, steadily chilling away my fever.

It was the last time we'd see him for ten years.

He hadn't even said goodbye to Stan.

For six relentless months, I pestered the Broflovskis for information. His parents were reluctant to explain his absence-what minimal knowledge I gained was through Ike, who told me that Kyle had gone to a self-help camp across the country. Bullshit. I had known Kyle at least that well. His idea of emotional healing was pitching rocks at metal road signs; he would rather die than commit himself to one of those Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul youth programs. Ike printed out the few e-mails Kyle had sent from Camp Happy-Go-Lucky, dully joyful paragraphs that held none of his judicious wit. The letters tapered off throughout the year. By the following April, they had stopped completely, and Stan and I were the only two people in town who still felt his absence.

Owing to a recent illness of his own, Stan could offer no explanations. He and Kyle had seen relatively little of each other that month; Stan had spent a great deal of time in the hospital, fighting a strange, flu-like bug and several alarming relapses. He had still been sick when Kyle disappeared. Kyle's wordless departure had simply destroyed him-he had loved him unconditionally, boundlessly, and had received the least amount of closure for his efforts. Eric didn't give a shit. I stood alone, helplessly monitoring Stan's silent decay.

But it had been Eric all along. Eric Cartman was fucking Kyle while Stan went on suicide watch. How had he captured him without our noticing? Surely something had kept Kyle from seeking help…I couldn't think of anything that would be worth his silence throughout ten years of incarceration. What had kept him under Cartman's control? Why hadn't he called the police?

Why hadn't we noticed him before?

My body was starved for answers. I had to move. I gingerly pulled myself upright, moving slowly, so as not to worsen my already ruthless headache. Johnson had paused to look at me through the window. His eyes were filled with a sympathy so lucid and profound that I couldn't bear to meet his gaze. I pushed off against the wall and continued down the corridor without looking back.

Harris had just stepped up to his office and was fumbling with the lock. He seemed surprised that I had actually shown up. "Kenny," he said, holding the door open. "Please come in. You and I need to talk."

My throat tightened as I followed him into the room. He gestured for me to sit down in the winged armchair in front of his desk, an antique piece of workmanship known fondly throughout the station as "the chopping block." This is how he always pulled us from our cases-from his secure place behind his engraved nameplate, the gentle reminder that, despite his camaraderie and benevolence, he was still our boss. I sank into the cushions, too exhausted to argue. Harris stared at me for a long moment. Something flashed in his eyes. Then he sighed and stepped past his desk, pouring me a mug of coffee from the pot on the counter.

"Rough day," he said quietly.

I felt my fingers curl reflexively around the cup. "Yes, sir. It was…it was the worst."

"You knew both of them, didn't you? The victim and the perpetrator?"

"Two of my three best friends growing up."

"And the third?"

"Stan."

Harris wearily rubbed at his chin. Stubble shadowed his jaw line; he too had pulled an all-nighter. He hoisted himself onto his desk and sipped at his own thermos, strangely casual in his fatigue. "You made the arrest with Murphy," he said. "Given the situation and your prior knowledge of Norman's character, what do you believe happened here?"

It hurt. Every nerve in my body hurt. "That fucker Eric kidnapped him. Blackmailed him into it somehow, enslaved him. He ran over Christophe when he came to us for help, and Kyle finally snapped and fought back. Good fucking riddance."

He winced. "Detective. Please."

"Damn it, what, inspector? You asked for my opinion." I was steadily losing my composure. The coffee trembled in my mug as I set it down too hard. "I can't believe this, I can't fucking believe this. After _ten years_, are we really going to prosecute?"

"It was murder, Ken."

"It was _justified_! It was self-defense! Imagine the horrors Kyle has been through!"

Harris' voice became abruptly strained. "I don't _have_ to imagine; we've searched that house. All of the windows are barred. The basement is comprised of a bathroom, a blanket, and three chains cemented into the wall. The electricity and heat have been off for the last decade. Even the main house is a nightmare-no phone, no television, no newspaper, even. Mr. Norman only knows how much time has passed because someone told him. He can't even name our current president."

That was too much. Involuntary tears burned beneath my eyelids. "_Fuck_."

Harris was off his desk immediately, nudging me with a box of Kleenex. I took a few sheets and wiped my nose, struggling to hold myself together solely for the sake of professionalism. Harris rubbed soothing circles across my shoulder. I closed my eyes briefly to concentrate on that warm, fatherly touch, startled by how much saner it made me feel. My hands would not stop shaking. More than anything, I realized, stronger than the shame or the confusion or even the grief, I was angry. Angrier than I had been in my entire life.

"Please stand up," Harris said.

"Great. Okay." I kicked the chair back as I stood, folding my arms down to attention with compulsive effort. "Permission to speak freely?"

"As if you needed it."

"Do your part, sir. Please."

"Meaning?"

"You can still fix this, Harris. Don't let Park County in; use Lieutenant Dawson, and make sure he hears Kyle's side of the story. Do _not_ keep Eric's name clean. If Kyle Broflovski deserves to go to jail for this, Eric deserves to rot in hell. Drag his name through the mud. Throw a fucking party on his grave."

He winced. "I am obviously keeping that off the record."

"I'd be more than happy to repeat it for the books."

Harris let out a slow breath and massaged his temples. "We'll start over, Kenny. For God's sake, keep your opinions to yourself! I'm not denying that something terrible is going on here, but I need you to climb off your soapbox and retain _some_ semblance of neutrality."

"Why?" I demanded. "Gag order? Don't even tell me this is a question of _morality_!"

"I'm trying to keep you on the case," he said loudly. "Okay? I'm trying to keep you on this goddamn case."

The words died abruptly in my throat. I gaped at him, positive that I had misheard. What the hell was he thinking? If my personal involvement wasn't enough to discredit me as a viable candidate, my lack of experience certainly made up for it. I was twenty-six years old. I'd done the deskwork on one clear-cut murder, but the rest of my career was vandalism ticketing and a few domestic disputes. Lieutenant Dawson had done drug busts, rapes, murders, stings. Whether or not my record was clean, I was easily one of the least qualified persons in the precinct-ours, North Park's, or Park County's.

"You're obviously not going to be the primary," Harris said into the silence. "You'll be on the field with interviewing rights, but I'm suspending your arrest privileges. I don't want to call you a consultant-you'll have more clout than that, as long as you conduct yourself well and keep your participation to a minimum. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, sir," I managed. "But…"

"Don't try to talk me out of it, McCormick, I know this is what you want…we need you because Norman clearly doesn't trust us, and I believe you can handle it. Realize that I'm pulling you the instant you display any level of prejudgment, and you will absolutely _not_ speak to the perp on a personal level until his sentence is delivered."

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"To the extent of referring to him exclusively by last name."

"Sir." Broflovski. I could do this; it would hurt, but yes, I could temporarily deny our friendship for the sake of keeping him out of prison. My body was alight with adrenaline. There were only a few questions left unanswered, one more pressing than the other, and it slipped out before I thought to stop it: "Where does this put Stan? Is he still on, or do you have him working with-"

"I've ordered Detective Marsh to take a leave of absence. If you see him in the station, you're to treat him as a visitor."

In the flurry of movement following the arrest, I had lost Stan. I couldn't imagine what he was going through. My eyes were stinging, and I looked away quickly, struggling to hide my distress from Harris.

Harris surprised me by speaking up softly, his own voice labored and suddenly personal. "After this is over, I wouldn't be surprised if he turned in his papers. He's an exceptional kid, but he's always been…fragile. Haunted. Recent events have me wondering if he only took this job in hopes of locating this missing friend of yours."

Sadness washed over me again in a slow, devastating flood.

There was a knock on the door. Harris stood up to answer it, speaking as he walked. "Listen, your partner is a transfer. The paperwork was on its way when we got the 187, so we rushed him in-he's only recently established citizenship in the United States, but he was the Chief Constable of Rutland two years ago at the age of twenty-four. That's the highest territorial office in his district. He would translate to a major here, possibly even a commissioner, but he's agreed to work as a captain until we get him settled. He's taking a significant demotion to help us. I trust you'll treat him with the utmost respect."

"Of course, but why are you calling in such specialized favors?"

"Remember what I said about the importance of small-town intimacy?" said Harris. "Our new hire briefly attended South Park elementary with you."

Before I could process that, Harris opened the door.

The man who walked in was roughly my age and height, handsome in all the stable, polished ways I wasn't. I recognized him immediately. He had combed his hair back out of his face, but a few locks had escaped, falling in casual golden waves across his forehead. He looked more like a movie star than a law enforcer, let alone one holding such a prodigious rank.

"Good morning, detective," he said, shaking my hand firmly. He spoke with a crisp British accent, London proper, not a trace of cockney. "I'm Gregory St. Clair."

"Ken McCormick, sir," I said, feeling about twelve years old. I had a sudden, acute awareness of my disheveled K-Mart clothing, the bags under my eyes. "Do you remember me?"

"I do," said Gregory primly. "I remember your friends, as well."

_Eric looks a little different on an autopsy table_, I began to say, biting my tongue just in time. Something in my face must've still given away the sentiment, because Gregory smiled humorlessly and flipped open the manila folder under his arm. He sorted briskly through the pages, scanning for relevant information.

"Kyle Norman, perpetrator, and Theodore Richards, the victim. Norman is officially registered under the name 'Broflovski,' but we've no one on file for his partner. Following your lead, Lieutenant Dawson has also searched for an 'Eric Theodore Cartman,' receiving only one hit for a minor traffic infraction seven years ago." Gregory looked up at me. "The house deed belongs to Ms. Liane Cartman. His vehicle is registered under her name. Even his mail and laundry tickets can be traced back to a pseudonym. Either Broflovski is lying to us, or he honestly doesn't know the legal name of his fiancé of eight years."

I didn't appreciate his tone, but Harris was watching. "I suggest we withhold judgment until we have a decent estimate of Cartman's character," I said stiffly. "If that torture chamber in the basement is any indication, the two of them had a tenuous relationship, at best."

"Certainly, Broflovski's contribution would be invaluable," said Gregory.

"He isn't talking?"

"Hasn't dropped a word," Harris said. "Except to say he missed you."

My throat tightened marginally. I swallowed stubbornly past the obstruction, refusing to personalize the statement until I was alone. "No mentions of a lawyer, then?"

"None. We're still waiting for news." Harris paused. "It might be prudent for you two to at least make an appearance in case we get the go-ahead for interrogation. Introduce yourselves; be very passive. I doubt he will ever open up, given the circumstances, but there's nothing wrong with making a good first impression."

I was desperate to see Kyle. I cast a quick sideways glance at Gregory just in time to see him shrug in agreement, relieving me greatly. Harris nodded and stepped back to let us out the door. I let Gregory pull ahead, lingering to meet Harris' gaze in earnest. "Thank you, sir," I said softly, when my new partner's footsteps had quieted in the distance. I couldn't get the words to sound sincere enough. "Thank you so much. I'm not going to let you down."

Harris clasped my shoulder briefly. "I know you won't, Ken."

I turned to leave. I was halfway through the doorway when Harris made a low noise, stopping me.

"Yates and I used to be best friends," he said distractedly. "That was before he took over the precinct, let the job devour him. I've tried so hard to blame him for our falling out, but I just can't begrudge him…near the end, I think work was the only thing that gave him any sense of control." He raised his eyes slowly, and for the first time, I could see in them the shadow of his secluded civilian half-the part of him that was once my age, that had known a companion like Stan. "It's not easy, Kenny," he said quietly. "Think carefully about where you are now. Where you really want to be."

Gregory stepped back into the corridor and gestured for me impatiently. "Today, detective."

"I'm coming," I called. I turned back to address Harris, but he was already shutting his door with a soft click. I stared silently at his nameplate. _Inspector Mitchell Harris_, it read, white script stenciled on mahogany. I touched my hand briefly to the lettering. My boss. I wondered what it felt to be sitting behind that title, the gold eagle and all those medals of commendation.

I wondered what those things could never say.

* * *

One of the graveyard shift officers from North Park had booked Kyle upon his arrival to the station, leaving the file out for us to look over. Gregory scanned it perfunctorily, without much interest. I went through it a little more thoroughly. Broflovski, Kyle G, "Norman." His fingerprints were small and irregular, many of them sporting scars. He did not have a telephone number listed, nor an emergency contact, and the lines for his driver's license information were blank. The only things he actually seemed to know about himself were his birthday and natural hair color.

His mugshots were taken digitally, but a few copies had been printed out to complete the report. They looked better suited to accompany a domestic violence case. His left eye was still swollen, and the high-contrast photographs spotlighted his bruises, starkly purple against his pale skin. I tried to remember what Kyle had looked like before, but the memories were fading swiftly in lieu of this devastating new image. There was so little of my best friend here; tragedy had consumed him. Even the telltale vivacity had disappeared from his face. Something powerful had finally died inside him. I closed the file and put it back on the table, following Gregory around the corner to the holding cells. He was waiting for me; I nearly walked into him. Both of us paused.

"Thank you for helping us with our investigation, constable," I offered awkwardly.

He didn't respond immediately, clearly mulling over possible replies. "It was gracious of Inspector Harris to indulge my interest," he said finally, speaking slowly and deliberately.

That made me frown. "He didn't call you in?"

"I requested this job."

"Why? A small town like South Park; you can't be too nostalgic."

Gregory did not turn. His voice was suddenly flat, pitiless. "I'm allowing your connections, Detective McCormick. You'd be kind to honor mine."

His abrupt change in tone stopped me short. I didn't doubt that he remembered the group of friends I had followed in elementary school, but that he would use it against me indicated a deeper level of suspicion than I'd realized he possessed. Harris wouldn't have told him about it. He hadn't even known about my heavy involvement until shortly before Gregory and I were introduced. How could Gregory know that Kyle, Eric, and I still shared a bond? Where did he tie into all of this?

Gregory had continued down the hall, not bothering to wait for my reply. A chief constable in South Park. No fucking way he was here out of the goodness of his heart. After a moment's hesitation, I drew in a slow breath and hastened to catch up, careful to retain a three-step distance.

We were nearing lockup. Two arguing voices echoed against the cement. One sounded exasperated and harassed, clearly the warden, but the other was pleading in a soft, hysterical whisper.

"He doesn't _have_ any family! Please, I just wanted to-"

"I can't approve this!"

"You're not _listening_ to me! His name is Broflovski, okay? Broflovski. He's the most important person in my life. He's the only thing that ever _mattered_."

"Detective Marsh, please don't put me in this position!"

Marsh, I thought, my stomach lurching. Fuck.

Gregory interposed himself as soon as we were within earshot. "Is there a problem here?"

Stan wheeled around, convulsive in his inelegance. "_Kenny_!" God, he looked terrible-his normally well-kempt hair was wild around his face, which was ashen, and the absence of his glasses revealed deep circles in the hollows of his eyes. He was rubbing his hands together compulsively. I winced when he reached for me. "Kenny, please," he began again with forced composure, his voice cracking. "Please, you understand. I have to see him. I have to see Kyle."

"Is he allowed back here?" Gregory demanded. The warden lifted his shoulders in frustration.

I made an inept move towards him, offering my arms, and he threw himself towards me without hesitation. His fingertips bit furious creases into the back of my shirt. I could only cling back, stunned-in all our years of friendship, he had never let himself get this close to me. His body was trembling violently under his jacket. He still hadn't changed out of his work clothes, and he reeked of the scene. Every pore exuded blood and rain and the too-clean smell of Kyle's prison house.

"You need to leave," I said, struggling to speak. "Your presence here is inappropriate."

"_No_! Fuck that!" Stan shook me hard. His voice was thin and frenzied; he would have been screaming if he hadn't already pleaded himself hoarse. "Two fucking blocks away, Kenny, why didn't he write, why didn't he _call_? _I have to see him_! How else can I know he wasn't just something I dreamed up?"

"He's real, Stan. He-"

"And how the fuck do you know? How the _fuck_ do you know?"

Gregory had already dismissed us and was waiting for the lock to buzz open. At the warden's nod, he disappeared unhesitatingly into the cell and shut the door behind him. Stan's arms went immediately slack around my waist, and he fought to get his breathing under control so he could hear Kyle's voice. We could only hear low, indistinct murmurs. His shaking worsened. I pulled him a little closer, my teeth clenched. What the hell was I supposed to say to him? Sorry, buddy, you'll see him in court? Kyle had been forced into captivity for ten years, and now he was facing another fifteen to twenty-five in state prison. And this, clearly, was the _right_ thing to do. This was _justice_.

"His lawyer will be in touch," Gregory reported shortly, emerging from the room. "We'll need to run the blood samples against your statewide DNA database; he still maintains the victim's name was 'Richards.' We can do little more without his corroboration. That's enough for now."

"He's under legal obligation to provide us with that information," I said. "You're not considering that a forfeiture of his Mirandas, are you?"

"No, obviously," said Gregory coldly. "Remember your place, detective, and trust me to do my job properly."

Blood rushed to my cheeks. I hated him. I hated his grandeur, his arrogance, his constant reiteration of my unsubstantiated rank. Most degrading of all, I knew I wouldn't hesitate to lick the bastard's shoes clean if he so wished it-I could not jeopardize my role in this case, _could not_, and he was just as aware of my ingratiation as I was.

Stan was still choking pleas against my shoulder. Flushed with humiliation, I extricated myself from his arms and pulled away. I couldn't bear to face his disbelief, his anguish. I was just stepping forward to shove past him when Gregory held up one hand, halting me.

"Is the suspect allowed a guest?" he asked the warden impatiently.

The hell? My jaw slackened. Stan lifted his head with equal shock, his eyes wide with hope and distrustful incredulity.

The warden looked between us, uncertain. "It's not the common practice in a murder investigation, but there are no rules against it," he said finally, helplessly. "It's your call, captain."

Gregory didn't even glance at Stan. "Detective McCormick will monitor their visit," he said.

"Sir?" I said, disbelieving.

He was already walking down the hallway, scrubbing his hands with his handkerchief as if they'd touched something foul. "Get some sleep and meet me here in the morning. I will handle the preliminary research. Don't do anything stupid."

Before I could think of a proper response, he had disappeared around the corner. I stared after him in confusion and fury. Did the prick actually have some humanity, or was it just a slip up? A reasonable extrapolation of his childhood identity, Gregory St. Clair was competent, authoritative, and unsettlingly apathetic. I was torn between grudging gratitude and the distinct impression that I now owed him something huge in return.

Fuck him, I decided, narrowing my eyes. Don't do anything _stupid_. Had that really been his parting shot? Until he opened up, I would have to labor under the conclusion that he was just playing with me. Trust went both ways. Trust, and friendship.

"Kyle," Stan whispered, freeing me from my reverie. "_Kyle_!"

I looked at him and caught my breath. For the first time in years, there was life in his eyes-a dark, glorious purity, silvered with moisture. He was tugging at his sleeves, trying to smooth the wrinkles from his slacks. His hands were quivering so badly that he couldn't refasten his jacket. After watching him struggle for a few seconds, I pulled him closer and slowly nudged the buttons back into place. This moment was bigger than both of us. I didn't want to rush it. I was afraid I'd wake up if I moved too quickly.

Stan combed his shaking fingers through his hair, mussing it beyond recovery. "Kenny, how do I look?"

I couldn't lie to him. "Like hell, Stan," I said, trying to smile.

He drew in a shaky breath, then laughed thinly. "Alright. Good. That's how I feel."

"Are you ready?" asked the warden.

"Am I ready. God, am I _ready_?" Stan closed his eyes briefly. "Open the fucking door."

The warden keyed in the code. There was a low humming noise as the lock released, and after giving my hand one final, tremulous squeeze, Stan stepped into the room.

Kyle was sitting on his wooden bench, leaning into the corner with his eyes averted. Probably assuming it was Gregory again, he did not turn. He was looking up at the barred privacy window. Clean morning sunshine dappled leafy shadows across the walls, and he was turning one of his tiny hands over and over in the rays, admiring the way the light played along his knuckles. His blonde hair was softly radiant. The stitches around his mouth looked dark and vulgar against the swollen planes of his face, which had faded to a dull rose color.

Stan simply stood there for a long time, holding his breath. Even from behind, I could read the fright in his posture-ten years of prayer for their reunion, all of it spiritual and insubstantial. This didn't come down to God. He had no idea what to say or do. His hands tightened at his sides, and I was suddenly afraid he wasn't going to speak up at all…it would be so easy to leave this all for dead, so easy to walk away. There was too much hurt history in this room. Every cinderblock, every bruise seeped a reality that I didn't have the courage to face.

Then Kyle looked up at him and choked, and everything in the world seemed to stop for a few inexpressible moments.

It was in that silence that Stan eventually spoke up.

"Hi," he said quietly.

Kyle stayed perfectly still as Stan crossed the room and rested his hands tenderly on his too-thin hipbones, then gathered him gently into his arms. The sheer understatement of their volume. The whisper of Kyle's hair against his cheek. Stan just sat there and cradled him like a child, vacuous and catatonic, moisture beading steadily on his lashes.

"Say something," Stan urged, his voice cracking. He stroked Kyle's face, kissed his fluttering, unresponsive eyelids. "C'mon, Kyle. Please."

Only when Stan's lips brushed his mouth did Kyle finally stir, his movement infinitesimal, frightened.

"_Stan_?"

"It's me. Kyle, it's me."

Kyle drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Suddenly, he was grabbing wildly for Stan, choking on thin, gasping sobs as they pulled into a clumsy embrace. Tears splashed down the front of Stan's jacket and his own orange inmate jumpsuit. His handcuffs gleamed as he draped them over Stan's head and dragged him closer, deepening the tentative kiss. It only took them seconds to regain their rhythm-ten years of muscle memory retention, of wanting it to be real again. A sign that neither of them had ever forgotten.

Stan's hands would not stop shaking. "I thought I'd never see you again. I thought-"

"I _knew_ it would happen." Kyle's high, strong voice, dampened against Stan's mouth. He was crying, barely comprehensible. "All this time, Stan, and you were the only thing I ever woke up for."

"Love you. Kyle, I love you so fucking much. This is more than-"

"-I know. Me too."

My eyes stung as I moved to close the door. God knew they deserved a few minutes of privacy-it had been too many years since it had been only them, tangible and unified, finding a moment without voyeurs. The warden made an anxious sound, one hand poised on the butt of his gun.

"You think they'll be okay alone?" he asked, softly and nervously.

"They're getting there," I said quietly. I sank down against the wall, the prison partitions already swallowing the desperate sounds of their reunion. "Give them a moment, please. They're finally getting there."

* * *

Following Gregory's instructions, I went home and slept for the rest of the day. I dreamt deliriously of earthquakes, junior year. Twelve Months of Ruin. I dreamt that Stan and I were approaching Kyle's cellblock in the center of a Mayan metropolis, the civilization that wrote the future on its walls and knew everything except its death date.

"Hey, Ky, did you wanna catch a movie tonight?" Stan called out. He was walking ahead of me and dragging an IV stand on reins, coddling it like a steed. "My flu's finally gone, and they're doing a midnight showing of 'The Green Mile!' Crucial knowledge! You can't miss it!"

"Sorry, I'm a little tied up," Kyle explained, shackled at the wrists and ankles. "Maybe Cartman wants to take my place."

"He could never do that!" I protested.

Kyle smiled brightly. "C'mon, Kenny! You and Stan won't even miss me!"

I was two steps behind Stan when the ground began to split. I looked up and Kyle was gone. We felt his disappearance seismically, a disaster that started at our foundations. It was the highest form of geographical betrayal-an earth that we could no longer count on to stay steady-and as the world shook beneath us, I could see Stan breaking like pottery, falling to pieces inside himself.

The city opened below me. The collapse flung me into the air, and I was groping for the edge of the crevice, blind in my panic. Gregory stood above me, his voice amplified through a rolled-up murder file, smiling and waving. "_And now, Eric Cartman will present the famous last-minute monologue, 'I'll Poison Me A Romance Tree!' How do you start? Why, with the _groundwork_, of course!_ _Rip it up by its beginnings! Who can stand on rotting land_?"

I had found a ledge, but there were no footholds-the face of the drop-off was polished like handcuff steel, marble-smooth. I tried to plead for help. My throat was completely dry.

"Don't do anything stupid, detective," Gregory said tenderly, lowering the file. He stepped gently on my fingers. "Roots can tangle, choke. Nothing is sacred…you should monitor their visit."

I lost my grip. Gregory disappeared swiftly in the distance, throwing case files after me, burying my vision in a jagged snow of paper. I was waking up as I fell, dimly aware that I was screaming. Ruin. Ruin everywhere. This was the end of culture, organized society. Even as my room dawned around me in familiar, sunny sheets, my hands just kept closing in the air, all of it so open. So much wasted space. Everything empty.

* * *

"Do you have any dirty clothing?" was Gregory's greeting upon my return to the station.

I just stared at him, still fighting the last remnants of my nightmare. "What?"

"You and I are going for an excursion at your local launderette," he said. He was already pulling on his coat, balancing a stack of notes under one arm. I wondered if he had slept at all-he was outwardly immaculate, but he was speaking with the caffeinated vigor I had become well-acquainted with in my years at the station. "Sergeant Murphy says the perpetrator mentioned it the night of his arrest, something about it being one of the few places he was allowed to visit?"

The evening was already a blur. I frowned, struggling to dredge up my minimal memories of the event. "The laundromat…yeah, I did hear him say that. He also mentioned the church, and something else within a four-block radius. I can't remember."

"Church, you say?" said Gregory distantly. "I just might let you have that one on yourself."

"Not a religious man, constable?"

"Suffice it to say a good friend opened my eyes."

My deeply-rooted Catholicism sent off an alarm bell or two in my mind, then quieted. In the last few days, my belief in a higher power had sustained some pretty considerable damage. I followed Gregory out to the patrol car in silence. He slid behind the wheel and began coasting the American model down the street with perfect ease. Apparently, there was nothing the guy couldn't do. I stared out my window and watched the buildings move by, disgusted by his aptitude.

The Wash-'n-Wear was about six blocks away, operating modestly at the edge of the town. TCT was its catchphrase-Tarnish it, Clean it, Take it away. Thomas, Craig, Tweek. No surprise that three of them had stayed in South Park; very few of us had actually had the means to escape after graduation. But living in shackles meant we were a great deal more resourceful than our Beverly Hills counterparts, and no one doubted the veracity of their business when Craig announced they were buying out the old New Age Shop on Main Street. Within a few months, they had the place spotless, well-advertised, and lined with pristine white washer-dryer sets. I visited it regularly before I moved out of my parents' house. I'd always loved dropping the coins, watching my sudsy clothes swirl around in the windows. Small-scale purification. It was glorious. When I went hunting for an apartment to share with Stan a few years later, the first thing I looked for was a nice washroom.

Gregory parallel parked at the curb between a few dilapidated sedans, one of them Craig's. I double-checked my pockets for my badge before stepping onto the sidewalk. Outwardly, I mused, the place was pretty much the same…a few of the letters were peeling off the glass windows, but it seemed to be running with the same simple technique. The hours were unchanged. Their signatures gleamed at the bottom of the "Suds for your Duds" sign, each name written in a different cheerful color.

"Remind me again who works here?" said Gregory.

"Craig, Thomas, and Tweek. All nice guys. Thomas has Tourettes, just so you know, and Tweek's a little jumpy. Craig's there for stability."

"Are they related?"

"Classmates. They've been close friends since elementary school. I think they're also flatmates; I know they bought a place together at some point. They spend most of their time here."

He absently examined one of the signs. "Ménage à trois?"

I felt my face reddening. Indeed, that was one of the more interesting rumors floating around town. "I wouldn't know anything definitive about that."

"Two is company." Sensing my discomfiture, he added by way of grudging apology, "They've clearly kept the peace throughout the years. Admirable. Three is not a very stable number."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I'd been carrying on a friendship with Stan and Kyle's ghost for the last decade; the only thing shakier than a trio was a duo with a subconscious third party. That was really the only relieving part of Kyle's being so close without us knowing it. It justified our unease. But, given the choice between mercy and validation, who the hell knew which brought more closure? Briefly, I wondered how everything would have turned out if Kyle had just died instead of being tortured for years upon years. I shoved that idea away in vicious disgust. So fucking selfish of me. Kyle was still alive, that was what mattered, and he had fought for every last breath. I pushed open the laundromat door on the tail end of that ugly thought, making the bell twinkle loudly.

Thomas was perched just inside the establishment with a newspaper in his hands. He jumped when we came in, nearly falling off the empty washing machine he was using as a seat. I was startled by how little he had changed over the years-nearly everything about him was the same, from his pale green sneakers to each wayward strand of dishwater-blonde hair. He had hardly aged at all. Only his eyes seemed older, haunted, the pale blue irises a mask for something darker and more damaged.

"Shit! K-Kenny?" he said, stammering badly. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"Investigating," I said. "This is Chief Constable St. Clair." I took a small step closer, concerned about him for no appreciable reason. "It's been forever. How are you doing, Thomas?"

"Fine. I…I'm fine."

His face was pale and drawn. Why the hell was he so nervous? I examined him with a frown, my eyes drifting towards his newspaper, which was rustling rapidly in his shaky grip.

Kyle's name was splashed all over the front page.

There were no recent pictures of him to accompany the article, only a small school portrait from our sophomore year. Kyle-the real, sixteen-year-old, redheaded Kyle-smiled up from beneath an urgent block-letter headline: SOUTH PARK MURDER SUSPECT ARRESTED ON SCENE. VICTIM UNIDENTIFIED.

I looked back up at Thomas. He stared back, trembling and wordless. I suddenly saw that there was more than simple recognition in his face. There was outright panic.

"You know Kyle Broflovski?" Gregory asked him, also taking note of his expression. "Were you aware of his fiancé's abuse, his unhealthy home situation?"

"Shit. I-don't know if this is the right place," Thomas said desperately. His eyes were fixed pleadingly on mine, trying to communicate some silent point. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "If you could just find another way to…I can't, god, I can't, you just have to leave, okay? Shit! I wish I could!"

I scanned the empty area. "Where are Craig and Tweek?"

There was a thump from somewhere at the opposite end of the room. Thomas scurried off the washer, his eyes racing. "Wh-_Tweek_? Tweek hasn't-listen, there's no time! Kenny, you guys just need to _go_. _Now_." He grabbed my elbow and urged me and Gregory back towards the door. When I resisted, confused, his voice leapt an octave in terror. "Please!" he begged. "Please, if he comes back, he'll-"

Craig's voice cut him off, thunderous even from across the room.

"Oh my god, get out, get the _fuck_ out."

We turned. Craig had materialized from the supply closet with box of cleaning supplies. He heaved it down and slammed the door shut so hard that all the pictures on the surrounding walls crashed to the floor. Perhaps to make up for Thomas' lack of change in appearance, Craig looked radically different-he had retired his blue hat for a black baseball cap, and muscles swelled threateningly in his arms, which were streaked with dark, jagged tattoos. I took an involuntary step backwards as he raged up the aisle, hurling aside any cart or laundry basket that got in his way.

"We're with the South Park-" Gregory began.

"I don't give a tin shit who you're with!" Craig yelled. "You're on private property, and if one of you so much as tries to flash a warrant, which I s_eriously_ doubt you have, I will punch it right through your fuck-lousy skulls!"

"Craig, come on!" Thomas began, looking at me imploringly. "Isn't it time you let-"

"_Get out_!" Craig roared.

Gregory didn't seem terribly inclined to move, so I grabbed his elbow and yanked him backwards out the door with me. Dignified exits be damned: for whatever reason, Craig was enraged, and I could read him well enough to know that everyone looked the same on the receiving end of his wrath. He would hit a cop if it so moved him. Something inside him had putrefied over the years. Gregory didn't attempt to reenter the building when I let go of his arm, perhaps sensing all of this in his eyes.

Thomas tried to apologize and let out an accidental slipstream of profanity instead. His ears turned red. Gregory shot me a look that said, _What the hell is wrong with this town_? and I threw my arms up in surrender. Shit, he'd only been here for a few days. He didn't even know the half of it.

"Still my property," Craig said lazily from the doorway, watching with cold disinterest. "Keep going, keep going. Just a little further."

I was pretty sure he was aiming to navigate us right into the center of the road, preferably when there was oncoming traffic. We stopped near the patrol car, unwilling to be bullied any further. "Craig, okay, what the hell's your problem?" I demanded, finally in a safety zone.

"Hate you in that uniform, McCormick," Craig said. "What a fucking waste."

"You've a problem with the police?" asked Gregory.

"Bless the Queen's soul, Jeeves! I can tell you've earned _your_ badge!"

"_Craig_," Thomas hissed.

"We just wanted to ask you a few questions," I said. "The information you have may be crucial to this case."

"Yeah? Swell, I've just been waiting for the day when you needed us again. Fuck off." He started to close the door. Thomas interposed himself quickly, jamming his sneaker in the way, and Craig stopped short. "_Move_, Thomas."

"No. I'm not just going to sit here and-"

"I'll break your fucking foot!"

"Listen to yourself!" Thomas demanded. "Just calm the fuck down and _listen_ to yourself, Craig!"

For the first time since our visit, Craig finally paused. Immediately, we could see him cracking around the edges-that open fury never left his eyes, but suddenly it was deep and raw and cancerous, grounded on honest anguish instead of vengeance. No matter how many incubi he had tattooed on his arms, Craig was human. His temper bore the scars of severe emotional damage. He shoved angrily away from Thomas.

"You don't deserve to be here," Craig told us, his voice low and tremulous. "You have no idea."

"Can't you give us one?" Gregory said.

"Now isn't that big of you, offering me a do-over? Fucking pricks. How dare you insult us like that."

"Thomas," I said in my kindest voice, trying to defer to his rationality. Thomas gave me a pleading look and shook his head minutely. I hated to put him in this position, pinning him against Craig, but we needed to know what was going on here. I layered on the pathos, surprising myself with the candor of my own vulnerability. "I don't know what you're trying to protect. I don't know what happened to you, okay? But surely the two of you don't want to see an innocent person pay for someone else's crime."

"Is that what this is about?" Thomas asked. "You're trying to _help_ Kyle?"

This was getting more personal than was appropriate. I said nothing; I couldn't admit that out loud, and I was afraid that I had already endangered my place in this investigation. Either in agreement or simply latching onto the weakness in their defenses, Gregory spoke up, his voice smooth and manipulative.

"We're concerned with the truth. This isn't about choosing sides. If you're doing what's right, you'll be in the clear-we can promise you at least that much."

"That's a fucking lie," said Craig loudly.

Thomas ignored him. He looked at me for confirmation.

"He's right," I said softly, lying through my teeth. Tell that to Stan, I thought. Tell that to Kyle.

Drawing in a low breath, Thomas stepped out in front of Craig and turned to murmur something so we wouldn't be able to read his lips. Craig watched him, keeping his face carefully neutral. A good ten seconds had passed before he finally looked back up at us, reluctant and disgusted, his eyes narrowed to angry slits.

"Saint Thomas insists that I give you a few friendly words on Kyle's behalf," he said thinly, after Thomas had pulled back to his side, "so here's some food for thought: trust me when I say Kyle was the victim here. Not that fat bag of shit, Cartman. I don't care what it looks like-this is bigger than the law, okay? Unless you want a huge fucking slap in the face-and this is _me_ speaking, not Thomas-you'll write 'John Doe' on that autopsy card and mosey your way onto your next hot lead. That's what you do, isn't it? I mean, why the fuck would you start caring now?"

"You knew about what Cartman was doing to him?" I asked. "You have Cartman's legal name?"

"God, this is starting to sound familiar," Craig said with false wonder, glancing at Thomas. "It's almost like we've been through this before, huh?"

Thomas' eyes softened, and he looked back at me. "Craig's right," he said. "I'm sorry, Kenny. We've done our part."

An interview comprised solely of riddles and shit we already knew. I tried to contain my frustration; they didn't deserve it, but the awareness of their hidden information was deeply distressing. Gregory nodded stonily in thanks and began walking back to the car. I couldn't bring myself to move just yet. "So what does he have on you?" I demanded.

Craig's eyes narrowed. "Beg your fucking pardon?"

"Eric. What was he holding over your heads to shut you up? How does he still have this power over you now that he's dead?"

I'd worded the questions specifically to elicit an angry response, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. The arm he'd braced against the doorframe tensed abruptly, forcing Thomas a step backward. His fingernails ground into the paneling. "You oughta know where I'm coming from by now, McCormick," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "What's Kyle looking at? Twenty-five to life? That's the kind of 'power' Eric Cartman has, the luxury of a failed justice system. Playing people off each other like fucking bowling pins. Dig real deep, gumshoe, and answer me this: how does it feel when the bad guys win?"

I shut my eyes briefly, conceding his point. It felt pretty fucking horrible.

"I think you're done here," said Craig.

There was one card I had left to play. I threw it out tiredly, having already resigned myself to some sort of rebuff: "If you two have nothing further to say, do you think we could talk to Tweek about this?"

Craig's head snapped up. His face went pale with rage. He drew in a fast breath to reply, but Thomas beat him to it, knocking over a stack of laundry baskets as he shoved past him. "Shit, are you _kidding_ me?" Thomas said shrilly, his blue eyes wide and furious. "Do your fucking research! Chief Shithole Montgomery with the Denver police department, _that's_ who you can talk to!"

Before I had the chance to apologize for whatever I had said, Thomas hauled Craig back inside and slammed the door shut so hard that the sign on the bottom pane leapt off and clattered to the sidewalk. Instinctively, I stooped to pick it up. Tweek, Thomas, Craig-such hopeful signatures, so many years old. I hesitated at the door, unsure if I should knock or not. I didn't want them to lose this memento.

"Just leave it alone," Gregory said calmly, absently examining a flyer on a sign post.

I whirled around, irritated that he had interpreted me again so easily. "Oh yeah, hey, you were some help here. Got a full twelve words in, did you? Go go team."

"But you were doing so well on your own," he said. His tone was perfectly neutral. I couldn't tell whether or not he was being sarcastic, so I stood there and scowled, my jaw set in defiance. He smiled his fake smile at me, the gesture almost honest. He opened the passenger door. "Get in the car, detective. You and I are taking a detour to visit the city police. Montgomery, did he say? Let's take a look, then."

"You don't think he was just talking?" I said.

"Thomas? Of course not. I'd credit him with careful speech, if anything."

Okay, he was fucking with me. That was definitely a Tourettes joke. I barely suppressed a sigh as I sat down in the front seat, both baffled and annoyed by Gregory's offbeat sense of humor. He tipped me a sarcastic little wink as he closed my door, already keying a page to headquarters. It was only when he fumbled the beeper slightly that I realized his hands were shaking minutely-a subtle trembling, nothing dramatic, but the motion was still unquestionable.

"Hey, are you okay?" I asked.

He glanced at me impatiently. "Perfectly, _thanks_." Pure acid. "Your town is poison, and all the people in it are bearing its effects," he added a moment later, a few seconds after I thought he'd finished speaking. "These are your 'nice' residents? Huh. I'd be more worried for myself if I were in your position."

_I am worried_, I thought silently. But my pride would not allow me to say it aloud.

Gregory finished the page, glanced back at the laundromat, and made a small, irritated sound. He got back into the car and pulled away from the curb. Without looking at me, he guided us back down the street towards the station, not so much as a waver in his driving. On the wheel, his hands were steady again.

* * *

After gassing up to go to Denver, we stopped by the station to check for updates on the investigation. Johnson pulled Gregory into the labs to go over the crime scene photographs, so I returned to my office to read the new memos on my bulletin board. Two of them were from Harris, keeping me posted about Kyle's attempts to contact a lawyer, and one was from Stan. "Ken, you are great," it read simply. I unpinned it and tucked it into my coat pocket, smiling faintly. The only other item on my board was the snapshot of the bridge Butters had defaced. The letters "RCLS" stood out in beautiful blue calligraphy, stunningly ornate against the crumbling concrete facing. It had been a wrench, making him paint back over it. I made a mental note to get back in touch with him.

My private line rang as I was turning off the lights. I started to let the machine get it, then changed my mind and relented. Gregory still hadn't returned from the labs. "South Park Police, Detective McCormick," I said into the receiver. "How can I help you?"

Faint breathing on the other end.

"Hello? Who is this?"

More silence.

I frowned, waiting for another five seconds. I was just moving to hang up when someone whispered something, so quietly that I barely heard it.

"I-I want to give you an anonymous tip. Can…I…"

"Please go ahead," I said, wondering if this was some sort of shitty joke from Park County. I turned subtly to the right, examining the station from the corner of my eye. Harris was leaning over Dawson and gesturing at something on his computer screen. Murphy was sipping coffee as a North Park officer rooted through the main desk's drawers for a stapler. No one appeared to be paying attention to me. I concentrated on the voice, which was soft and genderless in its inaudibility.

"Listen, the chief is on patrol with some guy, Gibbs. They're making the rounds because their station is a mess. Everyone's worried. Don't step on any toes…you _need_ to be able to talk with them. But don't trust them, okay? Do _not_ trust them."

With no paper readily available, I was scribbling the notes onto my own palm. I paused at this last, confused. "Why is that?"

"The Bureau of Investigation wants them blacklisted. Too much lost paperwork, too many spotless records. Don't jump to conclusions! None of this is what it seems!"

"How do you know-" I began, but was cut off by a few rapid clicks.

The line had gone dead.

Slowly, I hung up and walked out of my office. Harris was just passing by. I must've had some sort of look on my face, because he turned to address me, waving off my attempt to move to attention. "Sir, I don't know how much is covered under the suppression order, but we have got to keep tabs on how much information is being leaked to the public," I said, at his nod. "I saw the article in the paper, and someone just contacted me anonymously to give us news about a recent lead. You know small towns. We've got to be more careful."

Harris paused. "I gave the newspaper interview, Ken. I assure you, it was extremely perfunctory. I only said we had arrested a suspect on the scene; nothing about the circumstances of the death, nor his being a potential kidnap victim. You know I wouldn't divulge anything relevant to your investigation."

I stared at him. "This caller had information that Constable St. Clair and I just dug up. Who took our page?"

"Lieutenant Dawson," said Gregory, joining us.

"And did either of you disclose our findings publicly, for any reason?"

Gregory looked affronted. "Certainly not."

"I don't understand how you could've received this call in the first place," said Harris bemusedly. "We've never given your private line out to anyone. We haven't even set up the station's phones to take anonymous tips yet."

No way I had imagined it. "I just hung up." I thrust my hand out to show them my notes. Gregory spread my fingers so he could read, a faint frown on his face. I'd triple-underlined the words 'don't trust them.' "I couldn't tell who it was; they just told me that the Denver Headquarters are being investigated for internal corruption," I explained. "They said that the chief-presumably Montgomery, who we were just referred to by Thomas-is on patrol with a man named Gibbs."

There was silence for a long moment. "He is," Gregory said finally. "I just called Denver to make sure he'd be there for our visit."

I glanced at Harris, finally vindicated.

Harris studied me for a few seconds before snapping his fingers at the front desk. "Dawson, get a tap on McCormick's line. Be on the watch for any suspicious calls, any visitor here that seems out of place or has undisclosed information. An anonymous tipper has gotten too close to us; take the proper precautions. Don't let anything else slip by." He looked back at me and Gregory, his eyes dark. "I can't tell you about the reputation of Denver's unit. It's not the type of thing they tell county precincts. I would like to assume that our secret informant is only saying it to rattle you, but he's been right so far…go now, but keep me updated."

"We'll be back by the evening," said Gregory.

We left for the city.

* * *

The Denver station on 13th and Cherokee was a large, gray building with wildflower landscaping and darkly tinted windows. The floors were buffed so meticulously that the ceiling fluorescents gleamed on every marbled tile. Officers stood around in full uniform, blue shirts and black ties, each freshly-ironed name patch captioned with lines of ribbons that boasted its wearer's professional aptitude. I had to pause when we pushed through the heavy double doors. It was only a city precinct, nothing like state troopers would have, but it was grander than any law enforcement headquarters I had seen in my inconspicuous career. The sheer magnitude was enough to stop me from breathing for a few seconds. Predictably unaffected by this grandeur, Gregory strode up to the front desk and displayed his temporary badge.

"Chief Constable St. Clair. I'm unofficially employed here as a captain; I had you speak to Inspector Harris from South Park to confirm it."

"Yes, sir, the chief is on his way in," said the officer drearily. He looked like he had been worked to exhaustion. Dark red threads traced the whites of his eyes, and his hands were shaking as he searched for a notepad to sign us in. He uncapped a pen and started to write with the wrong end. He caught himself just in time and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, penning our names in careless print.

"Are you well, officer?" Gregory asked.

The officer laughed, a little hysterically. "Honestly, sir? No. I think I'm more dead than alive right now. This is my third consecutive shift. We're all pulling double duty to fill in for the higher-ups who are on a case. God, and I thought I'd graduated from this type of grunt work."

"What case is this?"

"We lost contact with one of our undercovers a few days ago. It would be inappropriate for me to give you all the details, but we have sufficient reason to believe he is in danger."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"You're the only one," said the officer, very softly.

Gregory paused and looked at me. I frowned too, glancing back at the officer. I might have believed he'd said it unknowingly, but a steady flush had crept up his neck-he was suddenly writing with an unnatural fluidity, as if he were struggling to look busier than he actually was. His eyes skipped nervously across his work. Fatigue had briefly loosened his tongue. He tried to duck behind his computer monitor, but Gregory tilted it aside, gently commanding his attention.

"Something to add?" he asked.

"No, no…I'm not at liberty to discuss…"

"Hey, take a breath," I said. He looked up at me at that, and I suddenly saw part of myself in his eyes: he was inexperienced, uncertain, but unlike me, he didn't have the security of an outstanding boss like Inspector Harris. The headquarters were beautiful, but there was nothing personable in the fake plants and floor wax-we could have been in a mortuary, for all the life this place exuded. I felt for him with honest regret, knowing what a difference an ally could make in such a distant, unconcerned environment.

"We're not a part of your precinct," Gregory reminded him smoothly. "If something is happening here, you can tell us without it coming back on you."

The officer gave no indication that he had heard. He only pulled his monitor back into place and typed industriously, his smile frozen in place. Gregory and I looked at each other again, not sure whether or not we should be pushing it. Then, under the guise of reaching for a new pen in the cup by my elbow, the officer leaned closer. He didn't look at us as he spoke, his lips barely moving.

"Listen, this sergeant, Rich, he used to supervise my watch. I never learned to trust him-he was always on suspicion for something or other, blackmail or harassment and even a few sexual assault allegations, but he was the chief's protégé and he got off clean every time. Montgomery is pulling strings, I know it. Good people never stick around long here. The bad ones get nailed with charges that never stick. I'm telling you this because I think someone had it in for Richard, quite rightly, but they're going to play him off as the victim. You won't hear this from my superiors, and you didn't hear it from me."

"That's horrible," I whispered back, almost hissing. My mind was racing. That had been the anonymous tipper's most adamant proclamation-don't trust this station; it's not what it seems. The writing was still ugly on my palm. If the Bureau of Investigation really had these guys under tabs, there should be sufficient evidence to take them down. What were they waiting for?

Gregory's expression was strange, unreadable. "Sexual assault allegations?" he said.

"Six or eight years ago, from this blonde guy and his friend. One of the lieutenants here showed me the files when I started working here. I mean, I can tell you all this because the charges got dropped; I'm under no lawful obligation to maintain their identities."

"What were their names?"

"I don't remember. I'd know them if I saw them."

Gregory reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out Kyle's mugshot. "Did he look like this?"

The officer studied the picture. "No. He had brown eyes, and his hair was-"

"Officer Lloyd!" someone boomed.

We turned around. Lloyd recoiled as if hit, jerking out of his seat and standing at attention. "Sir!" he hailed, far too loudly. "Chief Constable St. Clair and Detective McCormick are here to see you, sir!"

"I can see that," said Chief Montgomery, approaching the front desk. He was a huge, lumbering man, cozily dressed in a long jacket that was pulled open to display his shoulder holster. The butt of his gun gleamed under one muscled arm. His gray hair had been chopped into an unflattering crew cut, no doubt in an attempt to look the part of the archetypal cop-wonder. I disliked him immediately, his swagger, his forced air of affability-he ignored me entirely in lieu of Gregory, the officer with the bigger badge and a glorious arrest record. He intentionally crushed Gregory's hand in some affected power play. Gregory bore it patiently, without so much as blinking.

"Good afternoon, chief," he said, after Montgomery had finally let go. "Thank you for making time for us."

"I like to stay in touch with precincts that are still wet behind the ears," Montgomery said, beaming down at us graciously. "Make sure the little guys don't make any messes I can't clean up."

"How charitable of you," Gregory said, deadpan.

"Well, you know what they say, gotta watch the small fish. After all, they usually end up feeding the bigger ones, don't they?"

He laughed heartily, rapping Gregory hard on the back. For the first time since we'd begun this case, Gregory was beginning to lose his temper. Whether it was from the unwanted contact or Montgomery's jaunty patronization, I imagine he was finally feeling the weight of his temporary demotion-a good thirty years younger, and he had already held England's equivalent to Montgomery's exalted office. Gregory casually swept back his own jacket to put his hands on his hips, prominently displaying his Glock 19. Montgomery's Heckler & Koch was only a civilian-grade compact. The smile died rather quickly off the chief's face.

"What was it you wanted?" Montgomery said, not quite as cheerfully.

"We were referred here by a few of our locals," Gregory said, having finally gotten the prick's attention. He took the picture back from Lloyd and held it under Montgomery's chin. "The two of them seemed to think you'd know something about Kyle Broflovski, who was arrested on scene for the murder of an unidentified victim."

"Ah, more domestic dramatica on the South Park front," said Montgomery breezily. "Rednecks offing each other with sawed-off shotguns. I should be so surprised."

He was referring to the murder-suicide a few years back. My hands knotted furiously in my pockets, and I had to clamp my teeth down hard over my tongue to prevent myself from snapping. Even Gregory's eyebrows dropped a little in irritation and resignation. "You're familiar with our residents, then."

Montgomery studied the photograph for a long time before handing it back. "I don't know him," he said finally. "Never seen him before in my life."

"You're sure?" asked Gregory.

"I remember faces." Montgomery let out a soft breath, his eyes narrowing. Realization slowly lit his expression. He suddenly barked out at the front-desk officer, who flinched back, badly frightened. "Take a hike, Lloyd! Aren't there any toilets you should be licking clean?"

"Sir," Lloyd blurted, and scurried away from his post.

Gregory turned back to Montgomery. "Is that type of verbal abuse really necessary?"

Montgomery ignored him. He glanced around quickly for witnesses, saw none, and took a hostile step into Gregory's personal space. I took a step back. Gregory didn't.

"I can guess who referred you to me," Montgomery hissed. "Those two fucks who run the laundry there, right? Craig and his little blonde whore, throwing out allegations against my _finest_ officers. You had something to do with this, didn't you, captain? Trying to make a scapegoat for the all the shit that goes wrong under your jurisdiction? Well, believe me when I say we _will_ find him, and when we do, I'll make sure all your little friends know what it truly means to be fucked."

This sudden onslaught hit us both hard, a cheap shot below the belt. I could only stare at him, but Gregory stood his ground, torn between fury and confusion. "The hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Don't play dumb with me, _captain_."

"I might tell you the same. I don't know what you're-"

"My missing undercover!" Montgomery roared. "He's like a son to me! So help me god, if Richard Cartman returns with so much as a _scratch_, I will have your entire precinct disbanded!"

Cartman, I thought, my entire body numb.

_Cartman._

Our victim without a public identity. John Doe on the autopsy slab. South Park had never known Eric's profession, had they? No DNA matches in CODIS, no hits under his surname-undercovers had _sealed files_, you could only unlock them with the unit's approval. Hadn't he been wearing a blue shirt the night he was murdered? His expression when he had learned we were with the police. Commenting about the commute from downtown Denver. He had been on his way to visit Christophe, Kyle's only means of speaking out, ready to finish what he'd started with his truck in the parking lot of our station.

Sergeant Richard Cartman.

Eric was a cop.

Dimly, I was aware that my pager was beeping, but all the feeling had left my body. In one rapid motion, Gregory seized the front of my coat and began dragging me towards the door. Montgomery was shouting threats after us, florid with obscenities, but Gregory hauled out of headquarters without a single glance backwards. I stumbled along in tow, choking for breath. He had to physically push me into the car. It was only when he was seated behind the wheel and screeching out of the parking lot when he grabbed the two way radio, cranking up the volume in a roar of static.

"Inspector Harris," he said. "Eric Cartman was-"

Harris' voice crackled in interruption. "Yes, an undercover for the Denver Police. We contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation to unlock the file. Get back here now. You two have got maybe a four-day grace period before this all goes to court."

Four days. Four days to fix it. I fumbled my pager out of my front pocket, hands trembling too badly to hold it steady.

Gregory had to grab my wrist to see it. "'Penalty,'" he read, his voice low.

"For killing a cop," Harris said. "For killing a cop in the United States, the penalty is-"

"The death sentence," I said.

* * *

I threw up twice on the ride back. The second time, Gregory actually pulled over and braced me as I dry-heaved on the side of the road, pressing a handkerchief firmly to my forehead to keep the hair from my face. I couldn't control my body. I vomited everything I had left, everything still inside of me, knowing full well that I could never be purged thoroughly enough. I don't remember when I began to sob, but the world didn't stop for me. Gregory simply waited. He turned off the engine and watched me cry and paged the delay to Harris, silent and contemplative, never discouraging my breakdown.

This was _Kyle_, I told myself, the case file vivid in my memory. This was the sixteen-year-old honor student who had signed my yearbook with, "Friends forever, Kenny, this only dies when we do." If I closed my eyes I could still feel his cold lips on my forehead, the same lips that were imprinted with Stan Marsh's name and Eric Cartman's bruises. Whether or not he'd held the knife, he was the only innocent party here. Kyle Broflovski was being sentenced to death for our mistakes. _My_ mistakes.

My shame crushed me. I collapsed to my knees, palms biting into a fence post for support, splinters in my nerves. Furiously, I brought my hands down on the wooden plank. It didn't hurt enough. I repeated the motion, determined to draw blood.

"Stop that," Gregory ordered.

I turned on him viciously. "Why? When's the last time your failure killed someone? A chief fucking constable at our age, what the fuck do _you _know about letting your friends down?"

He let out a short laugh. "Much more than you realize."

I snorted. He didn't have friends like mine; could never understand how it felt. What the fuck was I going to say to Kyle? I'm_ sorry_? Sorry you're going to be executed for something that was everyone's fault but yours, Kyle. Sorry I'm working on the failed side of the justice system, that we're putting you out of your misery _ten fucking years_ too late. I could see it already, his delicate bruised arm stretched out for his execution, silver beads of sodium thiopental gleaming on a needle. Stan would die with him. I would die with Stan. And somewhere, in some quiet, exalted grave, Sergeant Richard Cartman would be laughing at all of us.

"You will not allow yourself to think this way," Gregory said. His eyes were steely. "Pull yourself together, detective. We're returning to the station."

"Fuck off. I'm through taking your condescending bullshit."

He was unimpressed. "I didn't hear that."

I closed my eyes and let myself sag against the fence, dimly nauseous, my pain as detached as if I were feeling it through someone else's body. I felt groundless, insubstantial. I could float away in exhaustion. Then Gregory slowly stepped around to my left side, knelt down, and gingerly placed one awkward hand on my back.

"I need you on this case," he said.

"You don't need me," I hissed, pulling away. "You never needed me, except for mutual blackmail. I don't know what you're hiding, but if you think protecting me is going to save your ass, you're wrong. You can drop the fucking pretenses any time you want."

Gregory's fingers were cold between my shoulder blades. "What pretenses? You were the only one who knew to look deeper. Our victim is a murderer, and the murderer is the victim. The inspector would lose his job if anyone knew he'd selected us for our predispositions, but he was willing to take the risk for a slant in Broflovski's favor. I thought you understood that. Haven't you realized yet that we are your friend's final defense?"

"Yeah, that's how _I've_ been playing this, but what's in it for you? You don't know me or Kyle. Don't tell me it's for justice-you're not that fucking noble."

He was silent for a long time. A car passed by on the opposite side of the road, slow and concerned, and he removed his hand briefly to wave a placation. After a moment, he returned it to the base of my neck. I flinched back, suddenly nervous, and he felt my trepidation and moved a few inches lower towards less sensitive territory. The memory of his strong, icy grip tingled in my skin. I was only now realizing how much he frightened me.

"I'm not asking for your trust, McCormick," Gregory said, his voice strangely soft. "I'm asking for your compliance with my authority, and your silence. If you follow my lead, I can do my best to ensure Broflovski's safety. All I ask is that you recognize my boundaries."

I could never return from this, I realized suddenly. If I agreed to these potentially criminal terms, I would be forever indebted, beyond redemption. I had nothing on him. Gregory knew he was holding all the cards. He was simply playing me like a passable hand, a straight-shot for immediate rewards, careless and quick. Disposable. But Kyle was part of the bargain, and I would do anything for him; would die if it meant his survival. I could only pray that Gregory's motives were honorable. I had to believe that Kyle's well-being was an ultimate good-that my own bias had not clouded my judgment of his character, and nothing bad could come of his right to life.

"Pull yourself together," Gregory repeated.

We had been sitting in the sunlight for too long. My vision was dark, but steady. "Help me up," I ordered finally.

I slowly pulled myself upright, accepting Gregory's helping hand, my stomach finally calming as we made our way back to the waiting police car. He guided me along indulgently, his new stooge. For the first time in my life, I understood the serenity of damnation-it was somehow relieving to find a floor that you couldn't fall through.

"I'll regret this," I said quietly, buckling myself into my seat. "I've signed on the proverbial dotted line, constable, but this doesn't mean I respect you."

"And maybe you never will," Gregory said, slamming his door. "I don't need your respect."

I was not a seasoned detective. With the exception of Stan, everyone in my district was leagues above me, proficient and quick and experienced. But I had always loved people before I had loved the law, and as we drove back to South Park, quiet drops of autumn rain beading on the windshield, I knew that Gregory had just told me his first and last lie.

* * *

Harris was standing just inside the station when we returned, gingerly pulling his coat on over his tense shoulders. "I can't take any more of this today," he said wearily. "I'm going home. Kenny, son, chin up...we don't have the conviction yet, alright? Constable, take him with you to run questioning." He hesitated briefly, then leaned a little closer to Gregory. "Remember what we spoke about earlier. Third party? 'Wild with the iron that tears at the nail, and the foundering shriek of the gale.'"

"Yes, inspector," Gregory said. "Get some rest."

I glanced between them as they spoke. Harris gave me a quick, apologetic look before pushing through the doors and walking out into the parking lot, which was still cordoned off to preserve the evidence of Christophe's accident. I turned to Gregory, feeling lost. "What was that about?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," he said. He walked to the front desk, where Murphy was just hanging up the phone. "Where's Broflovski's cellblock?"

"He's in transit," Murphy said.

I frowned. "From where to where?"

Murphy raised his eyebrows at that, his expression a mixture of amusement and surprise. "You haven't heard yet? Shit. Hold on a second, where did I put the damn thing?" He swiveled in his chair to shuffle on the opposite desk. He picked up a sheaf of paper. "Here," he said, offering the stack to Gregory. "Read it for yourself. Kyle Norman made _bail_."

Gregory eyed him suspiciously before consulting the files. His mouth tensed. "_Three-hundred thousand dollars_? Are you mad? Broflovski doesn't _have_ three-hundred thousand dollars. He doesn't have his own _shoes_."

"His lawyer wrote us a check," Murphy explained.

"He acquired a lawyer," Gregory said blankly.

"Clearly."

"One willing to drop three-hundred thousand on a client. Pray, when will we have the privilege of meeting this generous benefactor?"

As if on cue, the doors banged open at the end of the hall. "'Generous' implies a lack of reciprocity," someone announced, making us turn. The voice was deep and strangely cultured, but not unfamiliar. "Kyle's done a lot for me. All I'm doing is returning a favor."

A flood of traffic, dizzying in its capacity. Several North Park officers and one flustered reporter. In the center of the crowd, Dawson guided Kyle into the station, one hand braced on his cuffed wrists. Barely reaching Dawson's chin, Kyle's hair flamed richly red in the station's fluorescent lighting-sometime during his precious five hours of freedom, he had dyed it back to its original color, finally solidifying himself in this nightmare of a future. I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard it bled. Only Gregory's grip on my elbow kept me from going to him instinctively. Kyle looked so real it hurt, more familiar and alert than I had ever seen him before.

"Hi again, Kenny," he said softly, as Dawson lead him by.

My head snapped up. Kyle must've heard his modified charge; they couldn't pull him without giving him that information. In the face of a death sentence, how could he be so serene? Was it adrenaline? Denial? I did not feel right meeting his gaze, but he was stalling to see me, and something in his voice commanded it. I looked up and saw the unmistakable fire of trust in his eyes, firm and calm and lucidly green. I couldn't fucking believe it. After all of this, he still believed in me. What the hell had I done to merit his faith?

"Hi," I said, choking. "Hi."

Kyle smiled faintly, then dropped his head again.

Dawson folded an arm around Kyle's shoulders and gently urged him back towards lockup. Even given his crime, Dawson was treating him so tenderly, like something fragile. It was as if no one had seen Eric's body. Kyle could take care of himself; Kyle had thorns and claws. I watched until he had disappeared into the interrogation room at the end of the hall, turning back to attention only at Gregory's nudge.

My breath caught in my throat.

Kyle's escort was a tall, handsome black man in a tailored suit. He had more class in his polished shoes than we had in our entire precinct-he was solid and impeccable, impossibly elegant. Everything about him exuded upscale New York: briskness, candor, prosperity, education. He shook Gregory's hand firmly, then mine. I stared down at his neatly manicured nails, quietly stunned. He was wearing a class ring from Park County High School.

"Good evening, I'm Token Williams," he said calmly. "I'm here to represent Mr. Broflovski."

* * *

End of part two

* * *

Oh boy. It's eight in the morning here, sorry about the typos. I'll try to get them when I wake up. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: SHIT, I AM SO NOT DOING THIS ON PURPOSE. THIS ISN'T QUITE FINISHED. Four parts and that is really, really it; I swear I'm not doing this for the attention! The whole story minus the epilogue is written, but it wouldn't all fit in one update, so the last chapter will be the few straggling scenes plus the epilogue. Then it's done forever. I'm sorry that it's been such a slow, lame process. Thank you all so much for the reviews that I do not deserve. Maybe I should stop being an ungrateful whore and start replying to them, or at least updating more than once every three months.

I should've had this note up forty years ago, but a fabulous lady named Nolly3 was kind enough to draw an amazing picture from this unworthy fic. Please do check out my profile for the link, and stay to admire Nolly's beautiful gallery. Her work is phenomenal; you will be so inspired! Also, the very wonderful PommePourri took the time to translate this story into Korean-such a huge, generous commitment for a long-winded fic! I can't get the link to work, but do message me if you would like to see it; PommePourri is so sweet and the translation looks way better than the original. Thank you both! You're so awesome!

Um, warnings: confusion, liberties with the law and police procedure, language, clichés, mentions of noncon, Catholic inaccuracies, bastardization of so many characters. StanxKyle, CartmanxKyle, secret pairings, DamienxPip. Incompletion.

Finally-if there are huge gaping plot holes in this, please, PLEASE do tell me. I have a brainstorming buddy, but no beta. I have a bad feeling about this. I have potentially overlooked a mistake the size of Cartman's ass. On that note, if you see chapters go down, it's because I have fucked up epically and need to write my way out of these uh-ohs. Oh, research! It is so difficult for me!

Shut up, Foodstamp. Thank you all again. Please read on.

* * *

Lex Talionis

* * *

Grief, I thought, would always be the last cellblock in the corner of the South Park police station. The makeshift interrogation room was too small and insulated, like a brightly-lit coffin. A two-way mirror gleamed on the right wall. Harris and Dawson were merely hypothetical behind that dark pane; I could only see my own reflection in the glass, so much paler than I'd remembered, and, of course, my company: at opposite ends of the justice spectrum sat Gregory St. Clair and Token Williams, each holding some lawful claim over Kyle Norman the Merry Murderess. Four distanced classmates under the age of twenty-seven on a fucking homicide investigation. It was like a bad joke. Eric Cartman would certainly approve.

Forced to drop our familiarity for the camera, Kyle's only outward acknowledgement of amity was towards Token. The two of them had once been our class intellectuals, teaming up for science fairs and playing philosophical ping-pong whenever we examined interpretable texts in Intro to Lit. Token had attained a sort of cool, lawyerly detachment, but I could still read the distress in his eyes-in all his pride and perseverance, Kyle bore the obvious trauma from years of abuse. He seemed to occupy very little space, even given his diminutive size, and he unconsciously shied away from the room's light. Token kept touching his arm, striving to pacify him. He had flourished while Kyle had been destroyed. Survivor's guilt didn't always follow a physical death. Even in his four-hundred-dollar suit, Token seemed reluctant to flaunt his success.

"My client and I haven't had a lot of time to talk," he announced in greeting, one hand perched possessively on the back of Kyle's chair. "I'll be speaking for him, whenever necessary."

"How I love this sort of legal puppetry," Gregory said.

Token waved off the snub. "I don't get off on Lady Justice pulling my strings, but whatever butters your crumpets, yeah?"

"I'm sure you'll know when I'm in raptures."

"I'm aware of that, buddy," said Token. "You're nothing, if not transparent."

Gregory merely treated him to the thinnest of smiles in reply. Token returned the gesture with equal contempt, his eyes dark and challenging. Despite the ease of their repartee, their body language was guarded, completely indecipherable. I had never seen them speak at school. It was possible that they'd never been formally introduced, but Token had yet to give even me a nod, and there was no way he would forget a classmate of nearly fourteen years.

He was playing this off so calmly, I thought, torn between admiration and suspicion. It was as if someone had prepared him for this scene ahead of time. But what kind of connections could an illustrious lawyer still have to a town like South Park, even given his extensive history? How many things here were actually worth maintaining?

Friends, maybe. Family. And, perhaps under the greatest of circumstances, love.

Kyle sat mutely in Token's custody, his sleeves drawn to his elbows.

The faded blue shirt he was wearing belonged to Stan Marsh.

To my right, Gregory flipped open the case file and extracted a single sheet of paper, guiding it across the metal table towards Kyle. Token accepted it in his stead. There was a calculated pause as he and Gregory glanced at each other again. Still that intensity, all that strange, groundless antipathy. The room felt suddenly airless.

"A copy of Mr. Broflovski's withdrawal notice from Park County High School," Gregory announced into the silence. "Records show he was removed shortly before his third year." He waited for Token's impatient go-ahead before turning to address Kyle, keeping a courteous distance. "We haven't been able to reach your parents yet, but your brother said that you left for 'an exchange program' and lost contact throughout the year. Why didn't this worry your family? Surely a ten-year absence would raise some concerns."

Kyle shrank away from Gregory's attentions. A faltering noise escaped his lips, efficiently masked as Token cleared his throat to adopt the question.

"Mr. Broflovski and his parents weren't on the best of terms at the time of his departure."

Gregory grudgingly returned his attention to Token. "Is that so?"

"They were under the impression that he was going to a religious correctional facility," Token said breezily. "I believe his brother can corroborate this story."

"Ike told us it was a self-help camp that discouraged correspondence," I said, hoping the offhand information passed as a valid contribution. I wanted the transcripts to show we hadn't given up on our friend without an explanation. Kyle lifted his eyes to give me a brief, harrowing glance as Token continued casually beside him, vying to diffuse the room's growing emotion.

"You could call it that, debatably. The Broflovskis were using it as a euphemism."

"For what?" Gregory asked.

"Shipping a child across the country for sexual reprogramming. Pretty divisive practice, isn't it?"

"It'll do in a pinch," said Gregory. "They thought he was leaving for conversion therapy, then. Whose suggestion was this?"

"I understand that it was a mutual decision." Token slowed their exchange to squeeze Kyle's hand, not looking at him, the gesture just subtle and formal enough to pass as professionalism. "Outwardly, that is."

That made Gregory pause. He sat back in his chair, one eyebrow arched. "A strategic story on Mr. Cartman's part, wasn't it?" he said carefully. "The circumstances of Mr. Norman's removal-vague enough for a town to accept, taboo, socially unfavorable…parentally unforgivable. It was too simple to question."

"Almost," Token said sharply.

"Almost," I agreed, knowing that Gregory himself would not make that concession on record. I thought I saw Token's gaze flicker towards me briefly and wondered if he was as hyperaware of the camera as I was. The tiny red recording light blinked silently in the corner, its reflection gleaming faintly on the smooth center of the table.

Gregory was studying Kyle. Something about his appearance seemed to bother him-the refined clasp of his hands, maybe, irrefutable evidence of good parenting. Kyle waited tensely under the scrutiny. _What do you want from me_? his posture demanded. The battered side of his face was sickly yellow in the abrasive lighting, his eyes angry and defeated.

Confronted with his damage, I felt every pressurized ounce of our effort's futility. Healing was only for the people who were still breathing. Even assuming his release under the best of possible circumstances, how could anyone expect Kyle to live past this investigation? He would never be compensated for the years he'd lost. He would never again breathe easily in a dark room, feel intimate hands on his skin without the memory of forced intrusion.

I could tell from his predatory inspection that Gregory also saw the prospective trauma in him. He was a trespasser at a town wall, feeling for cracks he could kick through. For all of Kyle's posturing, he wore his weakness everywhere-his expression, his clothes, his eyes…and especially the fresh discolorations on the pale line of his neck. The careful scores of teeth.

"You've had time to catch up with Detective Marsh," Gregory said deliberately.

The color dropped from Kyle's face. His hand flew belatedly to the telltale marks. "Keep Stan out of this," he said, his voice startlingly strong.

"Kyle," Token warned, then turned back to Gregory, visibly angered. "Can I ask where the hell you think you're going with this?"

Gregory ignored him. "Did you recognize Mr. Marsh when he came to your door?"

Kyle was uncontainable, furiously overriding Token's reply. "Of course I did! What a ridiculous question! Can't you tell by now who Stan isto me, what he meant for the last ten years? Love is a little more _remarkable_ than that. We don't forget our beacons!"

I wanted to jump in to defend him against Gregory's provocation, but it wouldn't have made a difference in the long run. Gregory's immediate recognition of Stan's power over Kyle said far too much about the breadth of their relationship-he knew enough about Kyle to manipulate him, and that was what cinched it. He plowed on, his words steady and curt: "No, remembrance; that's really what it all comes down to. Isn't that right? People who 'mean' things to each other. But it goes both ways, memory does. Maybe your parents expected the falling out, but not to the extent of writing their son completely out of their lives. It's just not good enough."

"Good enough for who?" Kyle snarled.

"For the people who loved you," Gregory said, pushing him relentlessly. "Tell me, how does one realistically fabricate the disappearance of a well-loved member of a small community? More importantly, what got you to play along?"

Kyle smacked both palms loudly on the table, making the room ring. Everyone waited, but after a wild, angry moment, his eyes skirted Token's cautionary gaze and Gregory's impatient one. Instead, he fixated on me. His expression was too desperate and clinical to be personal. He didn't need me as a friend; I understood that immediately. He needed me as a neutral.

"Tell him he's asking the wrong questions!" he said, nearing hysteria. "You know I loved my family! They loved me too-there was _never_ any doubt about that. Ask me about _Cartman_. Ask me about the letters he wrote to my parents under my name, telling them I needed to be alone. They gave up on me because they thought it was what I _wanted_, okay? Cartman didn't just wake up and throw me in his basement; he severed all of my ties to the world. I was dead and buried before I even left! His being able to do that was degrading enough, but it doesn't even scratch the surface of all the fucking mind games he played on me. How can you talk about this so casually? Eric Cartman was a _nightmare_!"

A long moment of silence followed his outburst. The walls seemed to reverberate in the sudden stillness. Token simply rested his chin in one palm without anything to add, his expression fatigued. I was at a complete loss. I would've done anything to reach out and take Kyle's hand; I ached to supply him with human contact, uncomplicated and platonic. I knew from his thinly controlled stance that he wanted the same. His fingers inched out unconsciously, quietly supplicating.

"Kenny," he pleaded, so softly.

Before I could respond, Gregory flicked the file closed and put down the pen he was writing with.

"Talk to us, Mr. Norman," he said. "Can you do that? Find a place to start. Whatever comes to mind."

Stunned by this new freedom, Kyle turned to look at Token. Token gave Gregory a wary exam before nodding tersely.

"Careful," he muttered.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, pensive and hesitant, struggling to find the words. He examined his hands distantly as he deliberated. His gaze eventually stilled on the patchwork of scars along his palms, strangely ornamental slivers of white against the peach of his skin. He flipped them over for us to see. I drew in a quiet breath, not quite sure what I was seeing.

"One of the first things Cartman did was destroy my prints," Kyle said tentatively, showing us his flat fingertips. "He…used a burner on his stove. He set it to medium. I'll never forget that-I kept wondering why he didn't put it on high; he'd always gone out of his way to hurt me as badly as he could, you know?"

That disorienting smoothness. His fingers made no noise on the surface of the table, running fluently, frictionless.

"It took me maybe five, six years to understand." His voice was quiet. "After a while, the pain is no longer a matter of degree. Sustained damage doesn't go away…it just builds up. Every little thing contributes. Whether it's on medium or high."

"He burned off your fingerprints to conceal your identity?" asked Gregory.

Kyle gave a small laugh. "Oh, no. Isn't that funny? He did it because that's where Stan liked to kiss me. That was the only variable I could always depend on: Cartman hated Stan, wanted him dead to me. He tried to force me to stop loving him." He smiled, weak and triumphant, and wriggled his fingers. "Look at this, though. Look close. The fucker forgot that prints grow back."

Involuntary tears kept slipping from his eyes. I fumbled in my coat for a tissue, but Token beat me to it, producing a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket. Kyle accepted it reluctantly, pursing his lips to keep his breath from catching. His bangs were still damp from his most recent dye job. The new red was a shade duller than was natural for him; department store brands had never been able to match his color. Nothing about Kyle was easy to manufacture.

"Your hair," Gregory said. "I presume it was one of Mr. Cartman's stipulations. Why blond?"

Kyle's shyly informative voice became instantly cold, as if someone had flipped a switch. "Partly because the red was too conspicuous when I was finally allowed in public. Mostly because Cartman had a _thing_ for blonds."

No one dared to pursue that further. It was too raw, still bleeding.

"The night you 'left for camp,'" Gregory prompted instead.

Kyle snorted. Another tear escaped down his cheek, and he swiped it away impatiently. "A fantastic evening. Sneaking through Kenny's window sobbing while Cartman held a gun at my back." He'd finally found a moment to address me as a familiar, his expression so tender that it hurt. "Do you remember that? I didn't know what the fuck to do. You were burning up."

I tried to swallow past the obstruction in my throat. "I remember."

"I couldn't believe how sick you'd gotten."

"Yeah, everyone was sick."

Kyle let out a sound that was both a cough and a laugh. "Not everyone. Only you. You and Stan."

My chest ached faintly. The implications were nearly inconceivable, yet some dark part of me blossomed in validation. I had worried abstractedly about my own illness, the irregularity of the symptoms and reversions. Stan had been worse. His constant dizziness, throwing up. Always without warning. Always after a meal.

Gregory frowned. "_No_. Even back then, Cartman-?"

"Yeah, I underestimated him, too." Kyle's breath caught again as he leaned forward, the handcuffs rattling on his trembling wrists. "I laughed in Cartman's face the first time he threatened me," he said. "I told him he was fucking insane. He could talk all he wanted because he had absolutely no leverage over me, right?"

"Right," I said, feeling nauseous. It was something I'd never understood, what would keep Kyle quiet for ten years.

"Right," Kyle echoed flatly. "Right. But then Stan got sick. And I brushed it off at first, because _no one _was that psychotic; no one would poison someone he'd known for sixteen years just so he could fuck around with his boyfriend. Then you got sick. And Stan kept getting sicker. And by the time I figured it out, Cartman was forcing me to give him blowjobs in the hospital bathroom, but I was afraid he'd kill you two if I stopped visiting. I spent that whole fucking month on my knees."

Not even Token had heard this much. His expression didn't change, but his hand curled tightly around the handle of his briefcase. I could only shake my head and look at the ceiling as I willed my eyes to stop burning, sickly disappointed in myself.

"Fuck-how didn't I _see_ this? Why didn't we pick up on warning signs?"

"We were _sixteen_," Kyle said bleakly. "You and Stan were drinking floor cleaner and antifreeze. What could I have expected of you? Let's be honest here." He took a long moment to think, forcing himself to deepen his shallow breaths a little. "It's true, for so many years, that I tried to find someone to blame, just to make it a little easier for myself. But there _were_ no warning signs. This wasn't like pulling the fire alarm during study hall; Cartman had every move planned out, his _and_ mine. I was his hapless victim and no one else caught on-that doesn't mean we're stupid. Ten years of captivity isn't _luck_. He was sick. He was fucking sick."

Gregory chewed slowly on his lower lip, stalling for the first time since the beginning of our investigation. It was hard to know how to respond; I was glad to be the case's secondary. "Did you have contact with anyone else throughout the years?" Gregory asked finally.

Kyle continued to stare at the table. "No."

We already knew that wasn't true. I thought Gregory had set him up with the intentions of calling him out, but he merely flipped a page in the file, not acknowledging the obvious lie.

"The man who put in your domestic violence report," I said reluctantly. "Christophe. We believe Cartman ran over him in our parking lot for his involvement; you probably heard about that when Stan and Lieutenant Dawson pulled you that night for questioning."

"Shit, Chris," Kyle breathed quietly, his eyes widening. His cheeks grew flushed, but he didn't immediately admit to the fib. "I wasn't…I didn't purposely-how is he doing? Do you know?"

"I haven't heard anything," I said.

Gregory cleared his throat brusquely. "He's been slipping in and out of consciousness for the last few days. He's in traction for a hip fracture. He sustained a neck injury that's hindering use of his fine motor skills, including writing ability, and his jaw will be wired for several weeks. Don't worry about his substantiating your story incorrectly, Mr. Norman. He has been properly indisposed."

"Not by my hands," Kyle said angrily.

Gregory's voice was cold. "Perhaps not directly, but your silence certainly hasn't helped much."

"Wait, _what_? Fuck you and your implications! He was here because he cared about me!"

Token interjected before Kyle could continue, touching his elbow to caution him against further outbursts. "Christophe has been my client's correspondent for many years," he said firmly. "They were childhood friends. Cartman allowed their communication via heavily monitored letters."

I frowned. "Why would he do that?"

There was a long moment of silence. "Understand that this privilege was only granted after eight years of confinement," Token said finally, slowly, his wording careful and reluctant. "It wasn't _generous_. He'd just assumed Mr. Broflovski was…"

"Housetrained," Kyle scoffed.

"Psychologically habituated," Token amended forcefully.

"Meaning he finally trusted his dick in my mouth without holding me at knifepoint." Kyle lowered his head so he could rest his uninjured cheek against the surface of the table, his breathing hoarse. I wanted to get him something to drink, but something in Gregory's posture held me back. His body was strangely rigid; there was no pity in his expression. It was the first time since the beginning of the investigation that I'd seen him drop his subtle inclinations in Kyle's favor.

"So when did you meet up with Christophe?" I asked.

"About…two and a half weeks ago."

I thought back. When Christophe had filed the report with Dawson a few days ago, he'd said that Kyle was admitted to the hospital only a week prior. "So there was a delay," I said. "Christophe waited at least seven days before he came to us for help. Why?"

Kyle hesitated. "Maybe he needed…to lie low. Avoid Cartman."

"Or maybe he was calling in his own favors with a law enforcement agency," Token said brightly.

I glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"_Yes_, Mr. Williams, what _do_ you mean?" Gregory pressed with cloying patience. "An authority returning to South Park at a close friend's request? Surely _you're_ not familiar with the concept."

Token smiled. "No more than you are, constable."

"Is someone going to clue me in?" I demanded.

Neither Gregory nor Token even looked at me. "Just explain to me how Christophe got involved," Gregory persisted. "Don't tell me he flew all the way from France just to say 'bonjour.'"

Kyle closed his eyes, still not lifting his head. He did not speak for a long time. "It took me ages to figure it out. I was dropping hints, but Chris had no context for them. He had no way of realizing my circumstances, and Cartman would burn my letters if he thought something sounded too informative. But I-I _needed_ Chris."

"As an offensive force against your captor?" Gregory said with scathing sarcasm.

"As a _friend_," Kyle said, finally meeting his eyes. "A capable, resilient, _autonomous_ friend. He didn't have any strings for Cartman to cut. No connections in South Park, no one Cartman could harm…I thought he would be safe. Gregory, please-I never meant for this to happen to him!"

Something about that bothered me. Had Gregory formally identified himself by first name? I hadn't been there when they reintroduced themselves, and they certainly remembered each other, but I didn't realize Kyle was comfortable enough to speak to him so casually. For his part, Gregory did not allow himself any discernable reaction. He didn't even blink.

Kyle didn't wait for his response. He shook his head and hummed something softly under his breath. "'The tigers come at night,'" he recited flatly, his voice emptied of all inflection. "'With their voices soft as thunder.'"

It rang a bell. Something I'd heard in high school. "That's from a play," I said.

"Les Misérables," said Token, looking at me briefly. This time, the glance was grim and unmistakable. Token Williams, one fourth of our stunted male choir class, baritone to my tenor. We'd learned Verdi duets together for warm-up, the Schönberg for a winter concert. It felt like a thousand years had passed between then and now. I barely remembered any of the words.

"I don't remember anything but that one line, but I should thank you for putting the CD on repeat all November," Kyle said to me quietly. "That's how I did it. I begged for help in a cryptogram. I put the cyphertext in one note and a fake track list in the other. Chris is the only person in the world who would've caught on; he can read code in his sleep. He hates Les Misérables, but when he wrote back, he signed my name as Fantine."

"The whore," Gregory said, without repentance.

Kyle scoffed and swiped at his eyes. "Right. Clever. Four days later, he was in South Park, knocking on my front door." His hands unconsciously moved to his face, covering the myriad of bruises. Tears seeped between his fingers.

"Kyle," said Token.

"No, listen, I just asked Chris to report Cartman anonymously to a moral authority that wasn't Denver," he explained, steadily falling apart. "He said that he would. But Cartman found out about him; I forgot to throw away Christophe's _cigarette_, of all things, and Cartman beat the shit out of me when he came home. He threw me against a wall and raped me. It was the first time he'd done it in years-that's how long I'd been pretending that I'd given up."

He laughed suddenly, throwing up his arms.

"Can you believe it? All that time _earning his trust_. Ironing his clothes, cleaning his house. Biding my fucking time. How many times did I let him fuck me? Hundreds? Thousands? Above everything else that night, I remember the sense of total _peace_ when he started choking me. I thought he was going to kill me. That it was _finally over_."

His composure, paper-thin to begin with, had at last dissolved. Sobs spilled out of him. The force of this sudden breakdown was such that no one dared to touch him, not even Token, and the tension dropped out of Gregory's shoulders as he squeezed his eyes shut. Kyle clumsily dragged his sleeves back down from his elbows. The fabric was too long; the cuffs nearly reached his fingertips. Kyle wrapped himself up in his arms, hugging Stan's shirt to him as tightly as he could. He continued to cry, muffling the sound in the faded cotton.

"Yeah, we're done tonight," Token said decisively, standing up. He began to coax Kyle to his feet, and Kyle obliged gradually, each movement stiff and labored. "Come on, let's go. You need to get some sleep."

Gregory stood up as well, making no move towards the door. "Mr. Norman, what did you do in your freedom this afternoon?"

Token turned on him venomously. "Does he look like he's in any state to answer questions?"

"I dyed my hair back," Kyle managed, his voice hitching violently, surprising us. "I sat outside, looked at the sky. Then Stan took me into his apartment and we had sex."

Stan and Kyle's reunion was something I could not begin to fathom. I'd only known them on that level once, when they were fifteen, and that was before they'd had ten jilted years in which to cultivate a romance that was already miles deeper than either of their solitary lives. It was hard to believe that such beauty could exist so close to devastation, that passion could be sated four days before premature severance. Stan might've just made love to a dead man. I watched Kyle breathe Stan's scent from that dulling shirt and wanted to tell him that it could always be that way, that, yes, he had earned his happiness.

I wanted them to have more time.

"Just tell us why you did it and you can leave," Gregory ordered, his hand braced firmly on the door. "What changed, Mr. Norman? After ten years, what was your breaking point?"

Kyle's eyes were tired and swollen; he had trouble finding Gregory's face in the bright room. "I like the sound of that: 'Mr. Norman,'" he said when his sobs had slowed, reverently enunciating the last two syllables. "When Cartman ran into Stan and Kenny in the hospital, Kenny used Stan's middle name. Cartman finally realized that I'd been laughing at him for ten years. All that time, and I was always Mr. Marsh. There wasn't a second in which I ever belonged to anyone but Stan." Kyle laughed again, the sound sudden and harsh. "He said he was going to kill us both."

"So you killed him first," Gregory said quietly.

Kyle broke into a slow, humorless smile, letting his eyes drift shut. "I guess I was finally ready to take my life back at the cost of another's. You hear too much about murder, constable; you're desensitized. It's not as easy as it looks, even when a man is beating you or forcing himself into your body. And that's the funniest part, maybe. I took off my shoes. I walked into the bedroom-"

"He didn't do it."

Token's voice jolted us so abruptly from Kyle's account that we only stared at him, caught off guard. Kyle himself threw Token a confused look, drawing in a breath to argue, but Token raised one hand to silence him. He calmly stooped over to pick up his briefcase, stepping close to Gregory. The two of them were perfectly matched in height.

"Any other questions?" Token asked evenly.

Gregory actually floundered, clearly as mystified as I was. After struggling with his words for a long moment, he raised his hands in impatience and incredulity. "He-_what_? 'He didn't do it?' Mr. Williams, that cannot be your defense; please don't insult our intelligence."

"He has an alibi," said Token. "He went to visit Christophe at the hospital."

"Right, the man with the wired jaw who cannot currently write," Gregory said, uttering a small, disbelieving laugh. "How _convenient._ I'm sure he can corroborate this, too; I'm sure that he's quick enough to recognize the lies he's supposed to back up. I appreciate your efforts, but do be realistic, if only for _professionalism_-self-defense, accidental, damn near _anything _but 'he didn't do it.' Are you really that stupid, Williams? What the hell are you playing at?"

Token waited patiently until his outburst had ended. "Ah, so that's how it works on your side," he said, a tiny smile on his face. "Like Eric Cartman's theory of sustained damage, everything comes in increments; you cops have got a dozen fallbacks for every failed hypothesis. Life, twenty years, ten years-what's the difference, as long as someone pays for it?"

Gregory looked incredulous. "That is _not_ what I said."

"But you've said enough," Token said. "Let me explain how I'm running this show: _all or nothing_. My client doesn't deserve even one more day of wrongful imprisonment. I am getting him out of this clean."

Kyle simply stood there, stunned. Token paused to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder, urging him along.

"Let's go, Kyle. We have no further comment."

As they moved to leave, Gregory tightened his fists, throwing out a parting shot: "You're ruining everything, Williams! You're _acting_ the part of lawyer, not being one. How can you honestly let yourself gamble a client's life in your self-important quest for glory?"

Token didn't even look back, reaching for the doorknob. His voice was bitter. "Oh, there's glory in this, all right. Defense attorneys are as glorious as, say-chief constables. Or detectives."

I was frozen in place. This was only a good move if they succeeded; if Token didn't come through, Kyle had likely forfeited his rights to a lesser penalty. Death or life-a simple enough decision. But not when the odds were stacked against you. Not with a city precinct threatening your jobs, not against a lethal injection, not with the body of an undercover cop still warm in the county morgue.

"Wait, please," I said to Kyle, desperate. _Just trust me_, I wanted to tell him, _trust me; I will do everything I can_, but the door was open and Harris and Dawson were in earshot. I had to satisfy myself with that single insufficient syllable, one word against the boundless injustice of the law. "_Please_."

Kyle closed his eyes, allowing himself to move under Token's waiting arm. "No comment," he said.

Neither Gregory or I could call up a way to respond. Silently, Token and Kyle walked together down the corridor towards the holding cells, quickly disappearing in the hall's failing light.

* * *

Gregory wanted to go home and sleep. Apparently, the guy really was human. He loaded me up with paperwork and interrogation transcripts and instructed me to triple-check them for anything relevant-inconsistencies, important locations, points of interest. After paging Dawson with a reminder to check the hospital surveillance footage to confirm Kyle's makeshift alibi, I spread a few files across my countertop so I could look at them while I manned pots of spaghetti and Prego. I'd promised myself I'd stop eating out of cans and wrappers after graduation, a vow I had kept, though my cooking skills were still pretty limited. Stan frequently came over to help me out. The master chef could boil not only spaghetti, but fusilli as well. _My kitchenette is your kitchenette_, he used to say. _Just don't expect me to share the remote_.

Out in the living room, the television was silent. Stan's absence made me ache. I wondered where he was now, if Murphy had allowed him to stay with Kyle. There was no bail for cop-killers. I didn't want to think about Kyle sitting alone in another cell, but everyone in the station was treating him with a strange gentility-quite odd, even under the circumstances. My coworkers rarely relaxed their austerity. Harris was very strict about our being known as a competent station.

I was just reaching to grab a cup when my phone rang. I plucked the receiver out of its cradle, wondering who could be calling so late. It was nearing eleven. "Hello?"

"Good evening, detective."

Gregory. I frowned. "Hi, constable. Shouldn't you be getting some rest?"

"In a minute; a few things occurred to me," he said. "I…hold on, am I bothering you?"

I turned off the water. "Oh, no, go ahead. Really."

"Well-if you're sure. Thank you. I didn't really think before calling." There was a shuffling sound on his end of the line as he opened and closed a door. Faint piano music was playing in the distance. "I noticed that when we asked Mr. Broflovski about the people he had been in contact with during his incarceration, he failed to mention anyone, including the gentlemen at the laundromat."

I set down my ladle and paged back through the transcripts. "You're right," I said, surprised. "He didn't even fess up to Christophe until we pushed him. What does that mean?"

"It means that he sees fit to protect these people. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Craig and Thomas clearly understood his circumstances, but neither stepped forward, and Mr. Broflovski doesn't begrudge them for it. That's why I'm inclined to believe that Cartman's tyranny extended beyond one person, though Broflovski certainly seems to have received the brunt. Who else could've known, though? Churchgoers? What else did he mention the night of his arrest?"

I'd remembered this earlier that evening, staring into my carefully arranged cabinets of stickered soup cans with their iconic green labels. "The grocery store. I assume it was the one that's only a few blocks away from the house. I can show you where it is."

"The grocery." Gregory's voice sounded strange, falsely cheerful. "Another lead! Richard Cartman may have left us a trail of causalities to follow."

Richard Cartman. I mouthed the name experimentally; it still felt strange. "I still don't understand why he went by that," I said. "It only destroyed his associations on a superficial basis; anyone who knew Eric Cartman could tell who Richard Cartman was. I mean, he even went by 'Rick' briefly in elementary school. It's all so obvious. If he were trying to disappear, why didn't he change his surname?"

"Perhaps he and Mr. Broflovski have more in common than we thought," Gregory said.

I felt my voice grow cold at the mere suggestion. "Clarify."

"Detective Marsh's middle name, 'Norman.' Despite my initial assumptions, Broflovski didn't chose it because it was inconspicuous; he selected it as a tribute. Could Cartman be doing the same thing? Might 'Richard' be a trophy of sorts? If there is one thing I've come to understand about these gentlemen, it is that they are aware of their subtleties."

They'd been living lies for ten years. It was only natural that they'd become attentive to the details. I racked my memory for familiar faces, turning down the stove's burners. "There's Richard Adler. He was our shop teacher in elementary school, but he moved away when we were in seventh grade. I think it was also the name of our classmate Timmy's father, who is now deceased-Richard Tweek, who ran a coffee shop-I'd have to use a database to give you a full list, you know? South Park is pretty small, but there are Kevins and Richards and Rebeccas on every corner."

"Well, there's only one Cartman," said Gregory. "Liane currently resides in Broken Bow."

I blinked. "I thought she'd been Eric's financial backing! Who pays the bills?"

"I don't know where the money comes from, but all the ledgers are in Mr. Broflovski's handwriting."

The thought of Kyle doing something as small-minded and domestic as Cartman's bookkeeping was fucking appalling. I felt that familiar, tired rage come over me again. "That bastard," I said, before I could catch myself. My cheeks reddened instantly and I bit my tongue. No doubt Gregory's haughty rebuke would follow-some canned speech about the importance of neutrality and our precarious place in the investigation.

Gregory gave a brief, dismissive grunt. "Well, at least he died painfully."

Definitely not the response I was expecting. I'd braced myself for a reprimand and had to pause to collect myself; I couldn't even think of an intelligent way to reply. I don't know how long I would've stood there with my mouth open if a faint tone hadn't chirped in my ear, making me jump.

"Oh-can you hold on, constable? That's my other line."

"I'll be here," Gregory said drearily.

I took a moment to take a few breaths before I switched lines. A premonitory sliver of anxiety ran through me. I cleared my throat. "Hello?"

On the other end, there was deep stillness, a familiar presence discernable only in the static and a telltale sigh of breath. I knew his respiration, had known him long enough to read soliloquies in a single inhale. A car drove by in the background. I had a sudden, terrifying vision of my best friend lying in the center of the road, waiting for the merciful impact of a passing vehicle. We were all just lounging around on highways now, weren't we? Maybe that was the nature of justice. The constant possibility of collision.

"Stan, I know it's you; talk to me," I begged, cradling the phone closer. "Where are you?"

"Way up there," he said after a long moment, dimly. "Altitude 9721, the northern edge of the town property. South Park ends on a scenic overlook, did you know that? All this useless space, and we only own half the mountain. Someone decided that we didn't deserve an apex."

I turned off the exhaust fan and moved my pots off the stove, leaning against the counter to listen despite my sudden fatigue.

Stan let out another shivery breath. His cell signal, weak to begin with, crackled as he moved. In my mind's eye, he was standing beneath the green city limits sign that was spray-painted with the words, _C'mon assholes, choose the escape route with the air._ Jimmy Vulmer's long-standing legacy. No one would paint back over it; it said more about Jimmy than his gravestone did. The boys and I had so much history in South Park, and while not all of it was good, we were more afraid of forgetting than we were of surviving with our scars. Kyle was living proof of that. Kyle and Stan Marsh, and all the years of damage between them.

"He and I used to come here to be together," Stan said haltingly, his voice strange in the dense mountain silence. "It just felt so…safe. So remote. We'd drive up after our parents had gone to bed and look at the town, how small it looks from high up, and Kyle would say, 'This could be enough freedom for me.' I wonder if a part of him always knew that he wasn't going to leave South Park for a long time. He felt _pinned_ to this place; there's just this huge sense of obligation that makes most of us too scared to try to get out. Do you know what I mean, Kenny? That feeling like it's too late to run, that we're all in this together?"

Christ, I knew. We all knew. You could argue for those who had escaped, Eric and Token and Christophe, but where were they now? I let my back rest against my refrigerator, closing my eyes over the tired sting of tears.

"This was where Kyle and I first made love," Stan whispered. "In the backseat of my car, with the heater on." His voice wasn't shaking anymore. Either memory had warmed him or he was too cold to shiver. "We're never going to see this place again, are we? Both of us? _Fuck_. How long do we have before they ship him to the state prison and try to have him murdered?"

I willed my tone to stay even. "I can't discuss an ongoing investigation with you."

Stan was quiet for a long moment, then he said, "I know you can't. I'm sorry." The lull that followed was even longer, marked by the slow sound of at least two cars passing behind him. "Three, four days?" he said finally, sounding vague. "A week or so, if something goes wrong. Just keep telling him that it's all going to be okay. I'm going to take care of a few things, Kenny, and then he'll be all right. He's almost done fighting. He'll be able to rest soon."

Warning bells went off in my head. He spoke with perfect confidence, the same sad, calm reluctance of one Counselor Williams.

"Oh god, you and Token are in it together," I said faintly, feeling ill. I'd cupped my hand over my mouth before I'd realized it, an irrational precaution against anyone who could be reading lips from across the street. "Stan, _why_? You know how we work. Gregory and I had it; we can do our best for Kyle, but not if you fuck it up with reckless heroism. What the hell are you planning to do?"

"Trust me," Stan said. "You need to trust me."

I wanted to yell, but I was too tired. "And how am I supposed to trust you when you're fighting towards a legal impossibility?"

Stan's voice was so soft. "I've made mistakes. I gave up on him once. I'm not going to do it again, Kenny, bet your life on that."

"What do you-" I began, then I was cut off by the gentle sound of his phone snapping shut.

I thrashed to my feet and kicked the refrigerator so hard that half the magnets clattered to the floor. A few of my photographs floated to the floor, unsecured. I scooped them up without thinking. Yearbook candids from ninth grade; Bebe had given them to us after they'd finished layout. Kyle chewing on a straw. Stan with his football helmet tucked under his arm, swarthy and grass-stained from practice. The four of us standing against a wall at some dance, our formalwear in disarray, struggling to look more indifferent than awkward. Stan and Kyle's shoulders were touching. I was looking the wrong way. Eric stood at the far edge of the frame, barely there, half of his face hidden in the shadow.

Gregory was still waiting on the other line. I turned on the garbage disposal and slowly fed the photographs into the sink's dark eye. The blades whirred. Pieces of the prints danced in the air, and I scraped them back into place, waiting until the last fragments were gone from the basin before turning on the water to wash them down. Slowly, I resumed cooking. I tucked the phone against my shoulder and switched lines.

"Constable, are you there?"

"Well, here and there," he said. "Mentally disordered, I suppose. I've done a fair bit of thinking these last few days."

"I'm grateful for that."

"Who was that on the phone?"

I pulled the pot off the stovetop and drained the pasta slowly into a colander, trying to decide whether or not to lie. "Stan," I said finally, relenting. "He's…god, he's just a mess. I don't know what to do for him."

"What did you tell him?"

"Uh, nothing. We're-following standard procedure, aren't we? Confidentiality?" I felt uncertain. Gregory had only demonstrated a lack of regard for the law pertaining to personal affiliation. I wasn't sure if he intended to do away with all formalities, or if he just wanted to protect his own connections-which he had yet to explain to me.

Gregory was quiet for a long time. There was a clatter of dishes, and the distant piano music-clear and intricate, too virtuosic to be anything but Liszt-gracefully resolved from its taut dissonance.

"I owe you an apology," he said abruptly, with simple dignity. "I bullied you into compliance. I am many things, detective, none of them flattering, but…I do hope you can forgive me for resorting to intimidation as a means of gaining your assistance. I acted in poor taste. I just wanted you to understand that I am…not Mr. Cartman."

"Of course you're not," I said quickly, but I was taken aback. After all the scare tactics and condescension, Gregory was willing to civilize himself just so I wouldn't draw a ridiculous comparison between him and Eric? Maybe Kyle's interrogation had shaken him more than he let on. It certainly wouldn't have been his only secret-from how little sympathy he had demonstrated so far, he seemed to pride himself in his emotional rigidity.

"To clear things up, I do intend the best for your friend," he continued awkwardly. "This isn't some misguided sacrificial endeavor; I want him to get well, in every sense of the word. Despite appearances-and I'm speaking off the record-I'm only doing what I believe is right. Do you understand me?"

_Right_. Now there was a subjective word. But Gregory's moral compass pointed him towards Kyle's recovery, and that was all I needed. That was enough.

"I respect that," I admitted, then clarified: "I respect _you_ for that."

The following silence was different, almost shy. Gregory seemed unsure how to respond, and I became suddenly conscious of the unintentional weight in my words. The clock ticked on my wall. We both cleared our throats at the same time. Then there was the metallic sound of a can opening, and Gregory sighed. "Bugger."

"What are you doing?"

"That is an excellent question," he said. "I'm examining what appears to be cold ravioli stuffed with mechanically-separated meat paste. The nutritional value is-er…lacking."

I raised my eyebrows, surprised. My old Tuesday-Thursday dorm dinner. It had been good enough for me, a nineteen-year-old student who was paying his own way through college, but certainly Chief Constable St. Clair could do a little better. He was twenty years ahead of the career game. In all the mediocrity of my professional success, I could not fathom a cop prodigy who went home, hung up his badge and gun, and threw a cup in the microwave.

"Hey," I said suddenly, and then stopped when he paused to listen to me. I drew awkward circles on the counter with my fingertip. "Sorry if this is presumptuous, but would you-well, did you want to join me for dinner? I mean, I made pasta too, but it's probably a little more palatable than something that sits in a can for eleven months out of the year."

"Oh," said Gregory faintly, after a pause. "That's…very kind of you, detective."

"Don't give me that much credit. I'm not known for my culinary talents."

Gregory surprised me by letting out a short laugh. "As far as I can tell, neither is Mr. Boyardee."

I chuckled. "Good point."

His voice softened a little. "Well-I sincerely appreciate the invitation, but I already gave you a great deal of information to look over. I wouldn't want to spoil your entire evening. I feel bad enough just calling."

"Don't worry about it, really."

"Perhaps-we could have a drink together-after work? Sometime?"

"When we're not half-dead with exhaustion," I agreed, unable to stop a grin from growing on my face. His phone etiquette was impeccable until he got personal, then he became painfully inarticulate. It was almost charming. "That would be cool. Let's plan on it, yeah?"

"Certainly," he said. Could I hear a smile in his voice, too? "Thank you again. Have a good night, detective."

"You do the same," I said, and we hung up.

I fixed a plate and sat down at the counter, too tired to walk into the living room for the table. I sighed as I gazed out into my apartment. This place had always been too large for a single inhabitant; the space was wide and empty, it hungered for Stan's presence as openly as I did. Part of me already wanted my photographs back. The other part knew that the salvageable time in my life was over. It was time to scrap it all, look forward, and accept that nothing-not even my house, my own kitchen counter-would ever feel the same.

My only comfort was that, somewhere in South Park, at least one other proficient man was quietly managing himself through the same kind of loneliness.

Turning on the radio to KVOD Classical to catch the last few bars of Liszt's Consolation No. 3, I opened a new file.

* * *

The fuckers at the Denver station maintained that Eric had been killed in the line of duty, even though his "undercover work" was nothing more heroic than investigating the South Park pharmacy for missing prescription drugs. They held his funeral in Fairmount Cemetery, deep in the heart of the grounds, where war veterans and other exalted city personalities rested amidst marble graves and weeping angel statues, sinfully expensive landscaping. Officers on motorcycles led the procession, blaring their sirens. The whole city stopped by to mourn. The ceremony itself was clearly divided between traditional police interments and Catholicism; Eric's brothers in blue were nauseating on either side of the priest's violet vestments. Everything about the service felt comically obscene. I was nearly sick twice from the visuals alone, and even Gregory relaxed his decorum to jeer a little when Montgomery opened the epitaphs with "O Captain! My Captain!"

It was all so wrong. Eric Cartman did not deserve this. The governor had nixed the 21-gun salute, but few other luxuries were spared-there was news coverage and political representation, and all of the flags within a ten-block radius were lowered to half-mast. Eric was being revered as a hero, an exemplar of benevolence and nobility. His portrait hung above his casket. Dressed immaculately in uniform, he looked sophisticated, deceptively handsome, a dreamy lens softening the cruelty in his eyes. How easy it would be for someone to fall under his spell. They hadn't truly known him. He had never twisted their arms or raped them or poisoned them. In death, perhaps, he could pass for a decent human being.

Or so the records would say.

Gregory and I watched from a distance as the attendees paid their respects. Eric's coffin, covered with an American flag, steadily disappeared under a fragrant sea of floral arrangements. Women were sobbing as they laid down their bouquets; Eric would've fucking loved it. I grimaced and fought valiantly with my gorge.

"Did you want to go up there?" Gregory asked, noticing my distress.

I looked up at him, incredulous. "Why?"

"For closure."

"Are you shitting me? The closure is the _problem_. I can't spit on him when he's got that fucking lid shut."

Gregory chuckled quietly, tucking his hands into his pockets. He and I had agreed to attend the funeral in plainclothes. He had dressed in a tasteful black suit and trench coat, his orange tie too jaunty to be anything but deliberate. I'd gone a step further than him and forgone the black completely. I was proud to be the only civilian present in jeans, though I would not have minded Stan's company. My only comfort was my determination to dig up shit all over Eric's spotless record.

My mind raced furiously, constantly. With enough extenuating circumstances, a reasonable judge might be inclined to give Kyle as few as ten years. It was ten years more than he deserved, clearly, but cop murder was still an inarguably filthy crime-_even in America_, as Gregory had added contemptuously. Only one man in the history of the United States had ever been granted permission to live after killing a police officer. Just one. Eric wore a sanctuary of blue. He had a handful of social strings, and he was pulling them all down with him.

All I cared about was Kyle's life. It was the most I could _afford_ to care about, short of aiming for a complete, emphatic pardon and a cheerful courtroom musical number for good measure. What the fuck was Token thinking? However heart-wrenching your history, you didn't just walk away from death row. Nothing was ever that easy. Nothing was that _clean_. If this situation had taught us anything, it was that life was not fair-criminals wore medals in their caskets, victims faced lethal injections for the professions of their attackers. Token and Stan only wanted this to be right, and a week ago, I wouldn't have thought it was an unreasonable request. Now I understood my father's words. Moral authority or not, I was serving a limited justice system. I'd never thought that life itself was enough, but it had to be. Kyle had defended his for ten years. It had to mean _something_.

Maybe Kyle and I had that in common, I thought, closing my eyes. Maybe that's what Stan and Token didn't understand, what general stability couldn't teach you. Kyle had snapped, and I had settled. Both of us had finally learned to stop asking for more.

"Hello, who's this?" said Gregory, nudging me back to attention.

The aisle between the rows of chairs had cleared as people took their seats. Only one mourner remained, kneeling at Eric's coffin with his hands clasped. There was something disturbingly familiar in the way he moved. Light played gently off his hair, so blond it was nearly white, and from my angle I could only make out his pale eyelashes and the cherubic curve of one cheek. I frowned, blinking. I'd know him anywhere. He was one of achingly few people I could forgive for grieving someone so despicable.

"I'll be damned-that's Leopold Stotch! He's from South Park. I used to meet him for lunch a couple times a week, but we lost touch when he moved to Brighton to pick up a teaching gig. He's into elementary education. He must've read about the funeral in the papers."

"So he knew Cartman's real name and profession?" Gregory asked.

That hadn't occurred to me. "I guess so. He and Eric were close. It would make sense."

"If you were all mutually acquainted, why wouldn't he give you his or Cartman's contact information?"

"Maybe Eric was hiding him from us," I said.

"Or you from him," said Gregory.

Chief Montgomery himself stepped down off the platform to help him up, confirming Butters' knowledge of Eric's workplace. The two of them conferred quietly. Then Montgomery gave his shoulder a fatherly squeeze, his face filled with a gentility that I hadn't believed he'd possessed, leaning over to pluck a lily from Eric's casket spray. Butters accepted the flower, dabbed at his eyes with his sleeves, and moved rapidly back down the aisle. I started forward to intercept to him, but Gregory held me back.

"Give him a moment."

"Well, we'd better catch him soon," I said. "It looks like he's leaving."

Butters walked quickly back through the crowd, pushing blindly when people idled in his way. He seemed desperate to reach the parking lot. He was half-running by the time he reached the stone pathway, and he radiated grief, pausing to gulp in a few deep breaths before resuming his trek towards the wrought iron gate.

That was when I noticed them.

They were an insolent spot of color in a monochromatic procession, shockingly bold and impassive amid the dark sea of mourners. Tiny goosebumps broke out on my arms. It had been years since I had seen them rallied with such purpose, and their conspicuous presence at such a grim service gave me chills. The sunlight had silhouetted them against the barbed railing. Their shadows stretched across the grass, winding and vast and opaque, like cloaked reapers.

Isolated in the distance, they had formed a rough line in the lot just outside the fence. Token and Thomas were standing closest to the gate. Token had his back to one of the balusters, head absently inclined towards the clouds, and Thomas was coughing and smoking, holding a paper cup that hissed steam whenever he extinguished a cigarette. To Token's left, Clyde loitered with his hands in the pockets of his green Yes Foods Grocery apron. He looked away quickly when he saw me. Thomas followed suit a second later. Only Pip was too polite to ignore me, and he smiled and gave a tiny nod from his place at the far right. He was out of garb for the first time in months. His faded jeans and gray sweater were discreet enough, but his scarf was cheerfully plaid in the autumn gloom.

Craig was the only one wearing black. He was waiting at the gate with something tucked under his arm, something pale and cylindrical, the brim of his hat lowered purposefully over his eyes. He had a new tattoo. It gleamed a few inches above his elbow, swollen script that was indecipherable from where I was standing.

A thin wind picked up, making me shiver. "Constable," I said softly.

Gregory didn't turn. "I saw them."

Butters had finally reached the gate. He was fumbling to unlatch it when Craig opened it from the other side, startling him badly. The two of them consulted for a few tense moments before Butters relented and joined them, leaning into Pip's shoulder for comfort.

"What the fuck are they saying?" I said.

"Please join me in a final moment of silence for Sergeant Richard Theodore Cartman," the priest announced from the platform, hushing the crowd's remaining noise. Neither Gregory nor I bowed our heads. The priest began to read from Revelation, his voice soft and measured, like music: "'I heard a voice from heaven say, 'Write this: blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.' 'Yes,' said the Spirit, 'let them find rest from their labors, for their works to accompany them.' Then I looked and there was a white cloud, and sitting on the cloud one who looked like a son of man, with a gold crown on his head and a sharp sickle in his hand.'"

I tracked their movement warily. Something had happened between Craig and Butters. Butters suddenly recoiled, pushing away from Pip, who quickly backed up to let Token subdue him. There was a brief tussle. Thomas tried to say something, struggling with placations, but Butters drowned him out. "Then who's that?" he sobbed loudly, perfectly audible in the silence. "Who the _hell_ is that?"

A few people opened their eyes to glance around. The priest continued gallantly, never missing a beat. "'Another angel came out of the temple, crying out in a loud voice to the one sitting on the cloud, 'Use your sickle and reap the harvest, for the time to reap has come, because the earth's harvest is fully ripe.'"

"Please, not now," said Pip desperately. "You mustn't-"

"Then when?" Butters' voice was shrill. "So was I the only one who didn't know? You all just sat by and _watched_ as-oh, god, did _he_ know? Did _he_ take the file?"

"'So the one who was sitting on the cloud swung his sickle over the earth, and the earth was harvested. Then another angel came out of the temple in heaven who also had a sharp sickle-'"

Mourners were turning around in their chairs now, murmuring, trying to find the source of the commotion. I found a clear angle just in time to see Butters rip something from Craig's hands and push through the gate, making it crash against the fence. Pip started after him, but Clyde caught him quickly by the wrist and pulled him back out of the public's eye. Butters skidded recklessly down the knoll. His shoes slid in the dewy grass. When he reached the aisle, he staggered for balance against a chair and looked up at the chief, who was staring at him in bewilderment. The priest was still floundering with "and blood poured out of the wine press" as Butters unfolded the bundle in his hands and shoved it in Montgomery's face.

It was a South Park newspaper.

"His _fiancé_?" Butters shrieked, jabbing feverishly at the picture of Kyle. "He was living with his partner of _ten years_? You told me Kyle Norman was insane! You threw away his paperwork because he was a stalker, that's what you said, a _stalker_, not a _sex slave_! You _knew_ this was happening! You were covering for him; _all of you are in it together_!"

"Leopold-" the chief began, his eyes wide and panicked, reaching for him.

Butters shoved him away. "_Don't touch me_!" he screamed.

News cameras were screeching in for close-ups from all directions. Flashbulbs went off on Butters, then on Montgomery, who had gone sheet white. One of the officers on the platform leapt to restrain Butters. Butters yelled and flailed. I started forward but Gregory was up there in an instant with his badge out, extricating him rapidly from the man's grip and guiding him out of the limelight. I took Butters by the forearms to steady him. He resisted at first, protests rife with a shocking, uncharacteristic profanity. He recoiled when he finally met my gaze. His hands frantically swept across my chest, as if for affirmation.

"Kenny?" he gasped.

"Butters, can you come with us to the South Park station?" I asked, keeping my eyes firmly on his. He was so familiar and foreign at the same time; the young face was his, the anguish behind it someone else's entirely. He had the dusky, blurred scent of co-inhabitance. Bergamot under his own gingery cardamom. As if the man he was sleeping with wore a different fragrance to bed.

Butters dropped the lily from the casket spray and flattened it underfoot. "Get me out of here," he pleaded, numbly watching his shoe grind the petals. The newspaper fell from his loose fist. "I don't know what's going on, but I can't face it. I can't face it!"

I hooked one arm across his shoulders and guided him away from the offensively decorated casket. Butters came along slowly, moving in mechanical shock. After we'd cleared the aisle, Gregory stooped to retrieve the paper, tucking it into a careful cylinder and hastening to catch up. Before he'd made it even two steps, the chief seized his arm and wrenched him around.

"Don't fuck with me, captain," Montgomery snarled, right there on live television. His fingers tightened; I could hear the joints crackle. "You have no idea what kind of mistake you just made."

I knew from the controlled glimmer of tension in his wrist that Gregory could break the man's grasp if he so wished, but he just waited coldly, playing it to the crowd. He let them absorb the spectacle, the way the chief's knuckles were turning white with strain. He didn't have to say a word. Montgomery regained awareness of his surroundings bit by bit-first his own hand and its bruising grip, then the shocked mourners, and finally, the wide semi-circle of cameras before him, perfectly positioned for headlining shots of his unprovoked attack on a young officer.

After allowing for a few dozen flashbulbs, Gregory pulled his arm free.

"Enjoy these next few days of work, chief," he said simply, straightening his sleeve with a brisk, dignified tug. "We'll be in touch."

He fell in step with us. We returned to the car in complete silence, conscious of the hushed crowd and its rapt attention. Butters was shaking hard. Gregory shrugged off his coat and draped it across his shoulders, then tossed me the keys, which I almost fumbled in my surprise. It was only until after I'd unlocked the car and gotten settled in the driver's seat that Gregory rolled up his sleeve to examine his arm, which was already beginning to show the dark lines of bruising.

"He did the same thing to my hand when he shook it at the station," Gregory said.

"I never saw him get physical with anyone," Butters blurted. "Not ever!"

Gregory was cross. "And you never will again. I could have his job for this. Detective-?"

"Yeah, we're going," I said, turning the key, having just finished our routine page to Harris. The engine roared to life. I put one arm over Gregory's seat and turned around to back out of the parking space just as Butters dissolved into tears, burying his face in his hands so we couldn't see him. I winced. Gregory just let out a low, weary sigh and looked back towards the road as I drove, past the big black gate that led to the street.

The whole lot was empty. Craig and the others had disappeared.

* * *

I couldn't stay with Butters in interrogation. He sobbed steadily and endlessly, answering all of our questions with a naïve candor that made my chest ache. Gregory excused me so I could sit behind the two-way mirror and listen in. Butters went through tissue after tissue as Gregory relayed Kyle's testimony, the crime scene photos spread before him in a wide fan. His hands kept coming back to the mugshot. Kyle Broflovski with his pale hair and a myriad of bruises, beaten half to death, his wounds inflicted by the same man whose initials had cost Butters three hundred dollars and a previously clean record. I still had the picture of the vandalized bridge pinned on my bulletin board. It hung there like a brand, beautiful letters in an art teacher's practiced hand: _RCLS_. RC for Richard Cartman. LS for Leopold Stotch.

Butters had painted it three years ago, in commemoration of their first year anniversary.

"You've been romantically involved with Mr. Cartman since your twenty-second birthday," Gregory said again, still not understanding. "That's four years. What did he do to ensure your compliance?"

"Nothing," Butters sobbed.

"We're not here to judge, Mr. Stotch. You are safe confiding in us." I'd never seen Gregory act so cloyingly compassionate, but Butters made the type of victim who necessitated the exact opposite treatment of someone like Kyle. Butters was passivity to Kyle's aggression, innocence to his tragically accrued wisdom. Eric Cartman must've thought he hit the fucking jackpot. He hadn't deserved either of them, and he'd still managed to fuck them both.

"He didn't hurt me," Butters insisted. "He didn't! He wouldn't!"

Gregory gave up and began examining Butters for visible injuries. Butters was too miserable to disallow the inspection. I couldn't make out the details from my distance, but he clearly held up to the scrutiny, because Gregory sat back after a moment with his brows furrowed in uncertainty.

"Mr. Cartman honestly didn't harm you in any way? Mr. Broflovski was systematically abused for nearly ten years. You must've see some sign of-"

Butters clapped his hands over his ears. "No! No, _no_-he never raised a hand to me! I loved him so much, and he must've loved me too-he was so _good_ to me, even when I was being rotten!" Tears splashed down his cheeks as he leaned back over the photographs. We'd supplied him with black-and-white prints so the scene wouldn't be as gratuitous, realizing too late that Butters was in no state to see even the tamest of evidence. He pushed the files away. The only picture he held onto was Kyle's. His sobs redoubled.

I started to choke up and had to distract myself with my own notes. Inside the room, Gregory waited for Butters to calm down, his posture tense and impatient.

"Mr. Stotch-"

"I never knew," Butters wept. "Mr. Montgomery-Chief Montgomery-he threw out the reports right in front of me! They came from an anonymous source, they were _unconfirmed_; he told me the accuser was just trying to get Eric in trouble! I would have said something! I promise I didn't know that Kyle Norman was Kyle Broflovski!"

"You could not have known," Gregory concurred reluctantly. "What did this report say?"

"That Eric was blackmailing South Park residents, and he had enslaved someone in his house."

"How long ago was this?"

"A-about-three and a half years? Eric had just graduated. We'd met by chance a few months earlier in a coffee shop in Denver, and we just c-_clicked_. If you had only known him! He was the best man I've ever met! He was the chief's star pupil, too; they were like family. Who would've believed what he was doing? No one! That report didn't even get to another authority-Mr. Montgomery just glanced at it and ripped it in half. His officers, they watched him throw it away. They _laughed_ about it!"

A chilling disregard for procedure. Gregory looked as disgusted as I felt. No wonder the FBI was having the Denver station blacklisted; if even one dependable man on shift had spoken up, this would not have ended three years later in a murder, a hit-and-run, and a potential death sentence. But who had written the report? Craig and Thomas had led me to believe that they had tried to unmask Eric, but something as discreditable as an anonymous accusation was nothing to be righteous about. Craig would've known that. Maybe it hadn't been them at all. Damning involvement or not, they were only two of the five people present at the funeral to tip Butters off.

"You never knew about his profession?" Gregory asked.

Butters shook his head violently. "N-no! I mean, yes, of course I did, but I didn't know he was an undercover in _South Park_! This station had just opened the year I moved away. I thought Inspector Harris had all the bases covered!"

"Certainly, he does," said Gregory. "The question is not of the inspector's aptitude. Even as the leading member of the capital precinct, Chief Montgomery has no explicit jurisdiction over separate counties. What he is doing is undermining our police work because of a personal vendetta."

"But what does he have against South Park?"

"A six-year-old sexual assault allegation against Mr. Cartman, is my guess."

Butters' eyes widened. "Wh-what do you mean by that?"

In the horror of Kyle's prospective execution, I had almost forgotten about Officer Lloyd's information. Craig and his friend who had tried to file against Eric, then an up-and-coming law enforcement apprentice, whose offending charges had been unceremoniously dropped. The accuser was apparently neither Kyle nor Butters. Had Eric always been collecting victims for his fair-haired harem? Kyle was his first, Butters possibly his last. How many had he had in between them?

Gregory explained this to Butters without much more finesse, brisk and unapologetic, stumbling a little bit through the parts that required some sort of empathy. Having already exhausted our supply of tissue, Butters cried long and hard into sleeves. His voice was finally taking on shrill notes of anger.

"Eric had me so _blind_! I'm such a _fool_!"

"You're not," Gregory said, and left it at that. He flashed a short, meaningful glance at the mirror, towards me, and I would've nodded back if he could've seen it. I understood what he had already figured out: Butters had never been blind. Naïve, maybe, innocently willing to live in an unrealistically perfect world, but he had accepted an inconceivable story about his longtime lover with barely any protest. He said that there had never been any signs, yet apparently something in Eric-the gallant cop, the man who wouldn't hurt a fly-still carried the potential of a serial rapist.

"If I had just looked at the reports," Butters was whimpering. "If I had only spoken up-"

Gregory's gaze was sharp. "But you had no _reason_ to," he reminded, clearly calculating.

The man was unbelievable. In five minutes, he had seized upon the only trait that hapless Butters was consistent enough to maintain: his unfailing tendency towards self-blame.

"I did, though," Butters mumbled, very quietly. "I _did_ have a reason."

Bingo.

"Go on," Gregory encouraged.

Butters clasped one hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. "I…I lied to you when I said that Eric never hurt me. There was-one time. Just once, and it was my fault, but…" He managed to get himself under control long enough to take a deep, shuddering breath. "I was clumsy!" he blurted. "I was trying to find the construction paper, and I shut my finger in a drawer at school. I don't think I broke it, but it hurt like heck-when I went home to try to make dinner, I kept dropping things, and Eric made me sit down while he took over and started teasing me about what had happened. I already felt pretty silly. My kids were laughing at me all day; they kept saying, 'Don't worry, Mr. Stotch, you've still got nine more.' So when Eric said that maybe he should help me change into pajamas and wash my hair and feed me, I told him to stop treating me like a baby-it was like he was _happy_ that I was hurt."

Kyle's fingerprints burned clean off. Kyle being degraded day after day in handcuffs and rubber gloves, scrubbing bathroom counters and floors, the little things that would cause the deepest emotional injuries. So innocently, Butters had hit far too close to home.

Gregory nodded. "He got angry, didn't he?"

"He grabbed my arms and shoved me against the wall," Butters whispered. "He yelled at me to shut up and said I had no idea what I was talking about. Then…he just _left_. It was the only time he ever did anything like that, though-he never raised his voice to me again, even when he came back and I told him that we were through. He practically begged me to forgive him. He brought me two dozen roses; I still have the card. And he…actually stayed the night."

"Was that a rare occurrence?" asked Gregory.

"Y-yeah, he never slept over. He went to do 'undercover work' every evening and on the weekends. One of us would make dinner, and we'd maybe watch movies and make love." Butters was suddenly trembling. "Oh god. Eric would take me to bed, kiss me goodnight, then drive home and-and _force_ himself on Kyle Broflovski. Oh, god. Oh _god_."

That was too miserably demonstrative for even Gregory to handle. He stood up promptly and began shuffling to put on his coat again. "I should leave you alone," he said. "If there's anything at all you need, I'll be just around the-"

"Wait!" Butters cried.

Gregory was already halfway through the exit. He paused to glance at me behind the monitors before pulling back inside the room again and pulling the door shut. "Yes?"

"I think I have evidence for you fellas," Butters said, his voice abruptly strange, toneless. "Scrapbooks of news articles. Some papers that he told me to keep safe. There are boxes and boxes of tapes, stuff around the house that he asked me to rip up with the personal documents-he did that a lot, asking me to destroy things in the school's shredder. We used to have our own shredder, but it jammed. I'll bring everything in tomorrow."

"Things he asked you to destroy." Gregory studied him, uncertain. "That-certainly sounds helpful, but why didn't you comply?"

"I just…I just had to keep it all, you know? I loved him. I loved him so much that it hurt, and I could never throw away anything of his…anything that he touched, or wrote on, or that…that s-smelled like him…"

Now Gregory stepped back towards him, and, in the first honest display of sympathy since the beginning of the interrogation, clasped a hand gingerly to his shoulder.

"None of this was your fault," he said firmly. "All right?"

Butters sobbed his appreciation, then dropped his head back into his hands and motioned for Gregory to turn off the lights. Gregory obliged. The pane went dark, and I stood up as Gregory left the room, making sure the door wouldn't lock before clicking it silently back into place. He paced the short width of the hallway twice before swiping his hair out of his face turning to me with a weary half-smile.

"Did you get all of that?"

Gregory St. Clair finally looked tired, I realized, feeling a dull ache in my temples that was somewhere between utter shock and a complete lack of surprise. No doubt I looked far worse. "I'm sorry to say I did," I said. "What do we do now?"

"For now, sleep, I suppose. Tomorrow we'll have a chat with Mr. Donovan, and if Mr. Stotch brings Cartman's private possessions for us to examine, we'll go over those as well. Maybe they'll shed a little more light on the situation. After that, we will have to talk to the other witnesses-a lot of this depends on the evidence, yes? Isn't that true?"

I merely nodded, waiting for him to drop the bullshit.

It took him a while to look back at me, but when he did, he saw my expectancy and allowed himself to relax a little. "This is the kind of witness I don't handle well," he admitted. "I can't do therapy, all this…pointless grief. Why would anyone chose this over practicality? Over fury? You saw Mr. Stotch. His anger was malleable, something solid, productive. I'm not trying to glorify anything, but at least vengefulness is a reaction that generates some _purpose_."

"Thomas Carlyle," I said. "'The barrenest of all mortals is the sentimentalist.'"

"Right," said Gregory.

I shrugged. "Carlyle alienated himself from his wife and eventually died alone."

Gregory glanced at me, both indulgent and resigned. "But is dying alone such a bad thing, though?" he asked. "Don't answer that; I know what you'll say. I know what everyone here will say. Small towns are built around acquaintanceship, and small police stations are built around these precious share-your-feelings sessions."

He was gathering his belongings, preparing to leave. I kept waiting. "Yes?"

"Detective, really," he groaned. "No doubt I seem very cold to you, but I'm really not-I just prefer to handle things privately. You can be sure that you'll be the first person I turn to when I need a shoulder to weep on, how's that? But don't count on it. I can hold my own."

"But it's so lonely," I called after him, lightly teasing.

"_Goodnight_, detective," he said, sounding annoyed, but I caught his reflection in the glass door as he left. He was smiling.

* * *

I wasn't ready to leave the station yet, so I stayed with Butters as he called Thomas and waited outside for a ride. Christophe's crime scene was still cordoned off with police tape. Butters managed to provide Cartman's car color, model, and license plate number before closing in on himself, pursing his lips together so tightly that they had lost all color by the time Thomas pulled up in Craig's sedan. Thomas and I smiled and greeted each other politely as he helped Butters into the passenger seat. All of his actions were cautious and cold. My "goodnight" really meant, _We'll be in touch so you and Craig can explain the stunt you pulled at the funeral_, and his came out sounding more like, _Keep dreaming_.

Instead of going directly to my office, I passed by the holding cells to check on Kyle. He had already fallen asleep. Someone-probably Harris or Dawson-had moved a cot into the chamber, along with a pile of blankets and a new pillow. I still didn't understand why they were treating him with so well. It was true that we'd never had to retain a transfer from the county jail for this long, and the circumstances certainly were anomalous, but I was sure that even my kindhearted inspector would have very little sympathy for discomfort in the face of a murderer. Either way, I wasn't going to dispute it. Kyle deserved every bit of relief he could find. His hair looked so red amid the white sheets, his face still bruised but mercifully peaceful, having the first dreamless sleep of the decade.

I had been reading witness reports for almost two hours when the phone rang.

For a long time, I just stared at it. It was eleven-forty-seven; no one should be calling, especially not on my line. Johnson was the only South Park officer still in the station. He still had his gloves on from the lab, and he looked up sharply as the telephone blared, brushing past the North Park officers to retrieve the headset that Dawson had hooked up to the wiretap. He gave me a cue. I quickly picked up the receiver, masking the telltale click as Johnson flipped on the recording device.

"South Park Police," I said. "This is Detective McCormick."

"The chief was all over the evening news. Did he really hurt your partner?"

My heart began to beat faster. It was the anonymous tipper. The voice was even fainter this time, slightly choked. I still couldn't place it; it was too quiet.

"Montgomery bruised his arm pretty badly," I said cautiously.

"Will a charge stick?"

"I don't know if he's filing."

Abruptly, the voice rose. "You're all the same, aren't you! You're fine giving orders from the lofty side of the law, but when it comes to promoting it from the _other_ end, you all run scared! You have no sympathy for victims, you can't even bear to _humanize_ them to yourselves, then you wonder why people are uncomfortable confiding in you!"

"Watch it!" I yelled, startling Johnson, who winced back from his headset in the hall. No sympathy for _victims_? Kyle's face had flashed instinctively in my mind; the insinuation infuriated me. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I'm part of an _honest_ precinct that is dealing with the most serious crime in its history, and all of us are serving the justice system to the absolute best of our abilities! If you've got something that will help, then withholding it makes you no better than the type of witness you claim to hate!"

No response. Johnson silently shook his head and made a snipping motion, figuring that to be the end of our conversation. I agreed with him. In the silence, my rage seemed pale and mortifying; I felt my cheeks burning as I moved to hang up. It was an inch away from the hook when I heard the voice speak again.

"Kenny," it sighed, buzzing with static, but still unmistakable.

I yanked the phone back to my ear. "How do you know to call me that?"

"Clyde Donovan filed the anonymous report that Butters was talking about," said the voice softly. The fight and the disguised inflections were gone-I was listening to a tired young informant, still unrecognizable, but distinctly male. "He'll deny it, of course. He couldn't speak up then, and he can't speak up now. But please, cut him a little slack-he really tried."

He knew Butters' nickname as well as my own, and Clyde's full name. He had information that we'd only uncovered two hours before. "Who is this?" I demanded.

"Tell your partner to file charges," he said, then hung up.

In the hall, there was a clattering noise as Johnson set down the headphones and jabbed the stop button, scrabbling to retrieve the tape. "I'm taking it to the lab," he told me, moving past the few spectators from the North Park shift so he could join me in my office. "Harris got me some nifty audio software that I've been dying to try out, and we've gotta look up the trace. I'll call him and let him know what happened. You and the constable were planning to hit up Yes Foods tomorrow anyway, weren't you?"

"That's right. Seven in the morning, bright and early." I realized I was still holding the phone and hung up quickly, fumbling it back into place. I was flustered. My hands were shaky. "I handled that poorly," I admitted, dropping my eyes. "I don't suppose we can still use that tape as evidence?"

"Like something that personalized would ever hold up in court anyway," said Johnson. "Would've been fine if he hadn't used your name. Hey, though, I thought you did fine. A little on the terse side, but I didn't hear anything _too_ unpatriotic-nothing a good, slightly-cynical PR rep wouldn't say, at least."

He was trying to comfort me. I let my breath whoosh out of me as I slumped back into my chair, crossing my arms embarrassedly over my face. I had lost control, and it had been incredibly lucky that the tipper responded to it proactively. How could he have known what Butters had said in interrogation? I couldn't believe that Gregory would've said anything, but word traveled so quickly in small towns. Perhaps one of us had unwittingly said the wrong thing to the wrong person. And the tipper himself-I'd certainly heard his voice before, but so many years had passed since high school. I was nearing the unwelcome age when classmates' faces were finally beginning to blur together, except, of course, if you'd seen them recently. Especially in a mug shot or an autopsy report.

Fuck, I thought. Maybe Gregory was right; this blinking-back-the-tears bullshit was getting old. I leapt to my feet before Johnson's comforting hand could reach me, snagging my jacket on the way out. "I need to get some sleep," I said, moving fast.

Johnson hesitated. "Ken-"

I stopped in the doorway. "What?"

He had to pause to gather his thoughts. "Your rapport with the kids your age is admirable, and that worries me," he said finally. "I don't want you to compromise the investigation, sure. No one does. But I'm disturbed that Harris doesn't seem to share my opinion that your staying safe and anonymous is more important than keeping our social resources available."

So Johnson knew about my personal connections, too. Maybe I'd been the talk of the shift the night Kyle got booked. The thought would've angered me if I had any energy, but I was too tired to feel anything but a sort of dim melancholy. "I don't think Harris would tie me to the stake if he thought I was going to get burned," I said.

Johnson drew his mouth into a tight line. "You believe that?"

"Yes."

I could not afford doubt. Not in Harris, not in myself. Maybe a day ago, I could've paused to think about it. Wasn't that a possibility with my minimal experience, that I was just playing bait while the rest of the station waited in the wings with spears? Had I always been meant to serve as more of a conduit than a cop? But if I had needed anything else to make it real, Butters had provided it that evening in interrogation. This wasn't a rehearsal. If an anonymous tipper could accuse me of not caring about my job, then I was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder.

"I can have that trace for you tomorrow," Johnson said, looking reluctant and unhappy. "Listen, Ken-is there anything else I can do?"

The phone gleamed on my desk. "Yeah," I said. "Find a complaint form in Franks' filing cabinet and put it on Gregory's desk. Someplace where he'll see it. Make sure he fills it out."

Johnson raised his eyebrows, then gave a short nod. "You got it, boss."

"Goodnight," I said, and left.

* * *

With the exception of a gas station at the edge of town, Yes Foods Grocery was the only supermarket in South Park that wasn't headed by a corporation. The private-held building sported a modest five checkout lines, a meat department with a part-time butcher, and a small pharmacy where our many medicated residents could have their prescriptions refilled. Clyde was the assistant manager. He worked the graveyard shifts alone, sweeping the empty aisles, sad and contemplative under the glow of the deli neons. The sole customer had just pulled out of the parking lot when we arrived, leaving a lone cart gleaming beneath the streetlamps. Gregory and I caught Clyde listlessly tagging soup cans on an end cap. The sun was just beginning to color the horizon.

"Mr. Broflovski never dropped your name," Gregory said in salutation, leaning against the nearby counter with his arms crossed over his chest. "Honor in the face of the death penalty. Have you ever heard anything so noble? We've long since assumed your involvement, but he still claims to have acquired his attorney through osmosis."

Clyde didn't look up. His price labeler clicked on monotonously. "How else does a guy get a little help around here?" he said, not looking at us.

"By asking his friends," I said.

"Osmosis is more plausible. At least that theory's been proven."

Gregory stopped him by holding up the photocopy of our sophomore yearbook's candid page. "We're talking about _best_ friends, Mr. Donovan. Perfect factuality. The ones who'd supply three hundred thousand dollars on the drop of a dime, so to speak-friends like Counselor Token Williams."

Clyde took the picture and studied it. It was one that I'd seen before. In it, fifteen-year-old Token and Clyde had tilted their heads together and flashed cheesy grins, their camaraderie obvious despite the tackiness of the pose. Clyde examined it without a change of expression, and it was only then that I realized how long it had been since I'd seen him smile. Token's conduct had recalled the same stoic inflexibility. If I were in any place to berate them for what they had become, I would have done it, but a lawyer and a parent were leagues better than three flatfoots and a murder suspect. Clyde set the labeler down and stood up to return the photograph, finally meeting Gregory's gaze.

"Clear this up for me," he said. "Am I in trouble for asking my lawyer to take Kyle's case?"

"You're in trouble for keeping quiet about a kidnap victim for three years," said Gregory.

"Prove it," said Clyde blandly.

We'd talked about this earlier that morning. We could officially cite neither Butters' nor the anonymous caller's claims because they were still unverified. Clyde's being in Craig's company was suspicious, but not criminal. The only thing we could rely on was a little gem that Harris had dug up in Eric's unlocked file, and the hope that Clyde would slip up and fill in the blanks.

"You were at the funeral for Eric 'Richard' Cartman, Mr. Broflovski's captor," said Gregory. "We saw you alert Leopold Stotch to Mr. Broflovski's situation."

"Craig was the one with the newspaper; you should speak to him," said Clyde.

"We intend to. How did you know Mr. Stotch?"

"From school, obviously."

"And how did you know of his relationship with Mr. Cartman?"

"I…didn't."

Gregory shrugged calmly. "Yes, we anticipated this pretext. We can't prove that you and your friends gathered solely to share your information with Mr. Stotch, or that you had previous knowledge of Cartman's crimes. But if your presence at the memorial service weren't condemning enough, we do know that you were acquainted with Eric Cartman in addition to Sergeant _Richard_ Cartman."

The name made Clyde stiffen. "I heard he went to the academy in Denver, if that's what you mean."

He could not have provided a better opening. Gregory produced the packet from the folder under his arm and flipped it open. "You also knew him because he was doing undercover work in your store to investigate the alarming number of discrepancies in your pharmaceutical counts," he said.

Clyde was a shift leader in a tiny supermarket. He hadn't had Eric's training in dissembling, nor Craig's anger or Kyle's time to practice. The color left his face almost immediately, and though the extent of his movement was only a slight waver of the feet, I saw the lurch in his expression. "No one could have told you that," he said faintly.

"The Denver Police kindly provided us with the information."

"But they sealed his file!"

"And unlocked it after his murder. The FBI, that is. Interesting that of all the substandard police work that was produced by Montgomery's unit, Sergeant Cartman's claims against you are the only allegations that hold up to scrutiny. "

A hiccupping sob escaped Clyde's mouth. "What? He never did anything about it! If he'd had a case, he would've just sent it!"

"And given up the chance to use you as his squeeze?" I scoffed. "Not a chance."

He shrank back against the counter, his hands tightly clenched in the fabric of his worn-out jeans. His humble steel wedding band gleamed on his finger. He'd broken our class' long tradition of bachelorism when he was twenty, taking several jobs to support his growing family with the copious help of welfare checks and donations. The church's fund-raising had single-handedly paid their rent for nearly three years. Millie's poor health had put them into a debt that they still hadn't seen the end of, four years and a child later. Whenever Clyde ended up bagging our groceries, it was with a simple, appreciative solemnity-he was a decent, hardworking man; that was all, and that was everything. If anyone had accused him of stealing a month ago, I would've defended him with my fists.

But there was no fight in Clyde's eyes now. He didn't even try to dispute it. He just waited there and twisted his ring, the labeling forgotten, soup cans sitting half-stocked on their shelf for the first time in the history of his employment.

"I do admire your selections," Gregory commented, flipping slowly through the file. "None of the typical drug-trafficking choices, are they? Skipped the dextroamphetamine and went straight for the depressants. Lots of opiates disappearing, a Vicodin or two every now and then. The theft has tapered off throughout the years, but near the beginning, the morphine used to disappear by the bottle. Not very subtle, were you?"

"It's not what you think!" Clyde cried.

Gregory shook his head. "You couldn't possibly know what I'm thinking, Mr. Donovan."

"Enlighten us," I demanded, cutting in. My fury had been building through this interrogation; I was not going to play good-cop with my friend sitting in prison for a preventable crime. "Here's what I think: you were at the funeral because you had it in for Eric, too. He found out about the pill-pocketing, and you couldn't wait to have him discredited so you'd be in the clear."

"Who gives a damn about his _reputation_?" Clyde yelled, his voice cracking. "He's _dead_! I know his death doesn't wipe any slates clean!"

"So why'd you go?"

"I couldn't let Butters ingratiate himself to that heap of shit! Not after Kyle!"

The urge to hit him was barely repressible. "You knew about him."

"And the police didn't! Tell me which is more disgraceful!"

"We will not be made scapegoats for the corruption of the Denver precinct," Gregory said, wisely cutting off my outraged reply. He was pulling back deliberately, taking on the consoling role I'd abandoned. "When did you meet Mr. Broflovski?"

Clyde sniffed involuntarily, wiping his eyes dry with a furious, shaky swipe of his sleeve. "Four years ago."

"Where?"

"Where? _Here_. Right here." He smacked the tiled floor with his palm, between the first and second aisles.

"Explain."

His whole body was trembling. He leaned back against the counter again and hugged himself tightly, his expression wretched and distant. "It was five in the morning," he said, forcing the words out. "I was working days at the Pizza Shack. Millie'd had the baby eight months before, and we thought she could get a job after she recovered-but she never did. She just kept getting sicker and sicker. I was so tired, that's what I remember from that time in my life; I was _always_ tired. When Kyle crawled in, I didn't even recognize him at first. His hair color was different. He was so beaten up. I thought he'd just moved away before junior year, so when I ran to him, I kept saying, 'Sir, sir, what's your name? Tell me what happened.'

"I only realized it was Kyle when I tried to help him up, and he started saying Stan's name over and over. You just-_understand_ that there's only one person who can say Stan's name like that, you know? It was like seeing a _ghost_. His mouth was bleeding and I kept trying to make him open it so I could see if he'd bitten his tongue or if there was internal damage or what. I was so fucking scared! He wasn't making any sense! I told him I was going to call an ambulance, but he grabbed my shirt and said no, that I should take him straight to the police, '_please_, before he finds me.'"

This haunted aisle, so cold and conspicuous. I could see this all happening in my mind. At five in the morning it would've still been dark, and Kyle, battered and feverish and likely concussed, managed to break out of Cartman's house and stumbled towards the lights of the grocery. How old would he have been? Twenty-two? Six years of captivity, and the first things he saw were tacky Formica counters and Clyde Donovan's new nametag.

"What did you do?" Gregory asked quietly.

Clyde was struggling with the memory. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to staunch his tears. "I-I had the baby in a sling with me because Millie was s-sick. I grabbed the diapers and things and threw them into my trunk, then I tried to get Kyle to stand while the car warmed up. He wouldn't _move_. He was in too much pain. The South Park station wasn't open back then, and I couldn't just leave him there while I drove to Fairplay."

"Did you call the ambulance instead?"

"Oh, don't you know what I did?" Clyde barked suddenly, his face red with anger and shame. "I gave him some of the morphine I'd stolen for Millie! That's right, I took a whole fucking bottle that night, because our health insurance lapsed after she stopped working because of the _cancer_. Token was sending us all the money he could spare, but he'd just started at Penn Law. Even _he_ was struggling. And how do you ask your lawyer friend for drug money, anyway? No. No, and I couldn't keep begging from the church. I saw my chance and I took it. I would change it if I could…but I can't. I can't change _any_ of it."

Both Gregory and I faltered. Gregory gave me a quick look, waiting on my cue. I had to force myself to concentrate back on Kyle, suddenly afraid that my sympathy was showing on my face. The grimness of the situation was not hard at all to recall.

"And that was how Cartman found out you were taking the drugs?" I asked.

Clyde laughed, his voice breaking. "Walked in while I was pulling off the seals."

Gregory was strangely tentative. "And-what did you do?"

"What any _valiant_ grocery store employee would do," he said, brimming with self-contempt. "I brandished a wooden spoon and told him to stay back. He shoved me aside like I was nothing." He began blinking rapidly, not quite able to stop the tears this time. "And maybe that's what I am. I had time to go to Kyle, but I went for the baby instead."

_Okay, _I thought silently. Even bleeding on the floor, an estranged classmate wasn't the infant daughter of a sick wife. But I was too hurt and too angry to concede that point to Clyde. Kyle was facing death row with the same wounds he'd had on the floor of Yes Foods Grocery, wounds that weren't going to heal.

"When I went for the phone, Cartman just laughed at me," Clyde continued, crying into his sleeves. "He said, 'Call the cops, Donovan. Call Denver if you'd like, I have them on speed dial. Just remember that you check your kid and that bitch wife of yours at the door the second you walk into a station with stolen painkillers in your pockets.' And I thought-oh my god, _Millie_. You know how her parents cut her off for marrying me? They were so right to. All those years, and I still had nothing for her except six hundred dollars a month and some morphine. But they didn't understand how much I loved her. I couldn't lose my kid and my wife, the only good things I've ever had…not for Kyle. Not for anyone. _I_'_m so sorry_."

"Yeah, you make a great argument," I said flatly. "I love the 'noble thief' defense. Looks so good with the 'sick wife, new baby' card, doesn't it? But you still let Cartman take Kyle back. You're not in the clear."

Clyde unconsciously touched his wedding ring again. "I know. I know I…I can't worry about that anymore. Getting out of this clean." He looked up at me, his eyes both reconciled and imploring. "After Cartman took my case, he was confident enough that he had me under tabs. He let me visit Kyle, and he let Kyle pick up groceries when he finally trusted him to leave the house without running away. I wasn't there for him like I should've been…but he understood. He told me that it was _okay_. I just…can't believe that the one thing I ever did wrong was how Cartman caught me."

I felt more miserable than angry now, but I kept my voice deliberately cold. "Such is the nature of blackmail."

"It's too late," Clyde said in an attempt at bravery, wiping his face, "and I know I'm way too late to make a difference, but I will do _anything_ to keep Kyle out of jail. I'll repeat this story to anyone who'll listen, even if I…even if I end up…just, Millie's doing well now. Daisy's a big girl, now, almost six…she'll remember her dad. We're almost out of debt, too." He looked at me, so sadly. "You know what they call us, don't you? The townsfolk."

"No, I don't."

"They call us 'the McCormicks.'"

I couldn't stop the flush that rose in my cheeks. Kevin, Karen and I were all supporting our parents now; they had a new house on the other side of the train tracks, finally beyond two decades of financial instability. But the pariah never faded. The McCormicks would live on in ill repute, donning fresh guises. Like the well-meaning, wretched Donovans. I wanted to sever my affinity to Clyde, but he was my destitute trainee. That made it a little too real.

"Please just arrest me," Clyde pleaded suddenly, holding out his wrists for the cuffs. "I can't take this any longer. I know I deserve it."

Gregory merely stared at his outstretched hands, his expression pensive. He looked over at me, then back to Clyde's file. "Cartman's report states that the last pharmaceutical discrepancy appeared two and a half years ago, in February."

Clyde nodded meekly. "The cancer went into remission."

"And did you file an anonymous report with the Denver Police three years ago?"

Gregory and I had planned to confront him about the anonymous caller's tip, and we both watched carefully for his reaction. Clyde stopped twisting his ring and went immediately still, an obvious wave of terror flickering across his face. "Wh-what? Oh god, did Cartman _see_ it? He would've known I betrayed him! He'll have put my file in a locked deposit box or something to be sent posthumously to the chief-"

"_We_ have your file," Gregory said patiently. "There's nothing in it that you haven't already admitted to."

"But Cartman was smart enough to catch my report!" Clyde wailed. "This can't be the end of it!"

"We received this information from a different source," I said shortly. "Stop worrying."

Clyde just looked at me, panicked and uncomprehending.

"Do you know what a statute of limitations is, Mr. Donovan?" Gregory asked gently.

Now I looked at Gregory, bewildered and furious. He refused to meet my gaze. Clyde just shook his head, looking so small and so scared with his back to the counter.

"It means that after a certain amount of time has passed, no one can prosecute you for an old crime that never went to court," said Gregory. "You are initially protected under your fifth amendment rights, should we call upon you to testify, but in Colorado, the statue of limitations for larceny is two years. It has been two and a half years since your last theft. The amount of stolen merchandise is barely beneath the cutoff for a felony charge-it looks like the statute will apply."

"What do you mean?" Clyde whispered, not daring to hope.

Gregory snapped the file shut. "It means that Cartman's case expired. You're off the hook, Mr. Donovan, and off the clock. Go home and kiss your wife."

The sun had risen gloriously outside, light shining through the polished glass windows in warm, clean layers. Clyde did not move an inch. Outside, Tom the manager was blearily climbing out of his car.

"Hurry," Gregory urged. "Unless you want to explain this to your boss?"

Clyde stared at Gregory with disbelieving gratitude as he automatically unpinned his nametag and set it by the last register, looking somehow taller…finally moving like a free man. He punched out on the time clock and simply stood by the counter, waiting to wake up. "I just…" he began. Swallowed hard. "But this can't be _right_. Kyle's still in jail for nothing. I stole heaps of medication from my workplace, and I'm not going to have to answer to it? _Ever_?"

"Your conscience answers to it, that's what matters," said Gregory, strangely gentle. "Someone deserves a happy ending. Just don't forget how you got there, and at what cost."

"If you need me to testify, I will," Clyde promised in a small voice. "Anything. Anything for you and Kyle."

Tom triggered the door chime as he walked in, yawning. He paused when he saw us. "Morning, officers," he said cautiously. "How can I help you?"

"Just popped in on an errand," Gregory said. He gave Clyde one final smile, lingering and significant. "Have a good day. Both of you."

Unbelievable.

I followed him out to the car and sat heavily in the passenger seat, feeling sick and angry. I couldn't believe Gregory had let him off the hook so easily. Gregory sat down, closed the door, and turned to me with resigned expectancy. He was waiting for me to say something so we could have it out. "Yeah, that's the last time I let you play good cop," I said finally, obliging. "I thought you were going to shake his hand and pin a medal on him."

"Petty larceny is a misdemeanor," he said.

"Obstruction of justice for withholding information is a felony," I said.

Gregory sighed. "Detective, how are we going to prove that charge? It's a tricky indictment. If Mr. Broflovski told him not to go to the police, that there was nothing criminal going on, despite appearances, then they were speaking as peers. By that logic, everyone who's ever known an abuse victim is a felon. Why are you so determined to see Mr. Donovan prosecuted?"

Because he represented the version of myself that I'd narrowly resisted falling victim to. Because he was a simple man who'd loved his wife and daughter too much to let them suffer, even at the cost of Kyle Broflovski.

Because if I had been in his situation, I might have done the same thing.

"This is how it works in hell, you know," I said instead, looking out the window at that single shopping cart, lost yards away from its corral. "We're damned. We're all damned, so we don't care about who's serving what time, who pays for what he did. Don't you think that indifference is worse than hatred? I'd rather worry too much than not at all. Apathy is the true crime. Clyde's right about one thing: no slates wiped clean. None of this goes away."

"I don't know about any of that, but Mr. Broflovski kept quiet about his involvement to _protect_ Mr. Donovan," Gregory reminded simply. "If the victim found it in his heart to forgive him, I think you should, too."

I had no way to reply. Gregory slowly pulled out of the parking lot, began to drive away. I turned to watch that one shopping cart shrink in the distance, the rusting star on an asphalt horizon, so small and unremarkable. Who would ever see it there under the dead streetlamp? It could sit there forever without some merciful breeze. We were just turning the corner back into town when Clyde appeared and began hauling it back towards the store, now off the clock, still weeping and wiping his eyes with his apron as he walked the cart home.

"Maybe you could learn to forgive him," Gregory ventured tentatively.

I sat back in my chair and focused my eyes stonily ahead.

Maybe I could.

Just maybe.

* * *

"What's all this?" said Gregory.

Butters had already dropped off his boxes of keepsakes by the time we returned to the station. He must've made it to Denver with barely two hours of sleep, then driven straight back here to provide us the evidence. Dawson and Johnson had most of the cartons emptied and sorted. A lot of it was paper, but there were gifts and photographs as well. A tiny white teddy bear holding a plush heart was sitting on the forensics counter. I picked it up sadly, noting how reverently clean Butters had kept it before tossing it into the box for our examination. This romantic debris somehow hurt worse than the crime scene had. I put it down and followed Gregory towards the relevant pile.

"It's a gold mine," Johnson declared, showing us a packet of documentation. "Look, these were complaints that Cartman didn't put on record. _Dozens_ of 'em. Here's a report from a teacher in Brighton who was worried that Leopold Stotch had been physically attacked by him. Another six or seven claiming verbal harassment."

"I'm disgusted that he kept these," Dawson said curtly. "Probably would've had them framed, if he'd had a place for them."

Johnson nodded, his voice becoming a little more subdued. "There are some records that you'll need to go over privately, constable. They're, uh, directly related to your case."

"All right," said Gregory.

"Do I get to know?" I asked.

"Oh, you'll hear about them, Ken," said Johnson uncomfortably. "But it would be best for someone else to work out the M.O. ahead of time."

Gregory gave me an apologetic look. "I'll work quickly."

"Also, we checked the tracker on the anonymous call," Johnson said. "Came from a payphone in downtown Denver-I'm sure that that's not at all helpful, given your vic's connections to the city."

"Fantastic, so we can rule out all the people we've already spoken with," Gregory agreed, sighing. He was sifting idly through the box as well. His hands stilled suddenly on a piece of paper, which he lifted out to examine in more detail. Something strange came over his face. Something that I could've called sadness-had I not known him to be such a hearty anti-sentimentalist, of course.

"What is it?" I asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He showed me the item. It was a handwritten note from a florist shop, white with a solemn red border. _I'm sorry I hurt you, Leo_, it said, the block letters messy and distinct. _Never again, I promise-you are __everything__ to me_.

"From Eric," I said at last. "I bet this came with two dozen roses and a good dose of verbal abuse."

"Mr. Stotch said he kept the card," Gregory said. "I hadn't realized-I didn't think he would _literally-_"

He was actually choking up a little. Constable fucking St. Clair, heart of steel-I couldn't immediately process what I was seeing. Johnson and Dawson were staring at him with something like wonder. I realized that I had the same expression and quickly pulled myself out of it, startled by Gregory's faltering, but not enough that I was going to let him flounder. I reached past him for my coat, rattling the open desk drawers in the process, and that seemed to snap him out of it.

"So where am I going now?" I asked. "Should I go back to the scene, or do you want me back at the laundromat?"

Gregory cleared his throat and tossed the card back into his box. He squared his shoulders. "No, I'll go to the launderette," he said, and the look he gave me was quick, but not ungrateful. "Dawson, will you accompany me? In the meantime, detective, I've got a task that I think is better suited to your talents."

"What, you need someone to get angry and destroy a lead?" I said, teasing.

He held out my gun by the muzzle.

"I need you to say your prayers," he said.

* * *

So, for the first time in many years, I went to Sunday morning Mass. The church had changed drastically since Father Maxi's retirement. The clergy was considerably gentler, temperate and diplomatic, lacking any trace of the fire and brimstone zealousness that had characterized our Sunday sermons in previous decades. The jagged wrought-iron candelabras had disappeared. The "REPENT" engraving above the door was sanded down and corrected with a mellow varnish. Most importantly, the crucified stone Jesus no longer presided over the worshippers with His wide accusing eyes-a handmade tapestry hung in His place, psalms quietly luminous in gold thread. "Give glory to the God of heaven: for His mercy endureth forever," it said. Not one word about the mercy of His children. The concept of goodwill among humans sounded so beautiful and terrible, now. So achingly distant.

I had not forgotten the majesty of a well-spoken homily, but I stumbled badly through the liturgies, and the woman next to me had to keep gently pointing out our place in the leaflet. When I received Communion, the host felt heavy so on my tongue that I could barely swallow. Our send-off, though traditional, felt like a pointed irony: "Go in the peace of Christ."

"Thanks be to God," I said, my voice lost in the congregation. Peace in South Park, right, with its tortured prisoners and blood-filled sidewalks. I crossed myself as I stepped into the aisle, letting the parishioners flow past me towards the doors.

As the church slowly emptied, I made my way up to the altar to wait. There was one other man still sitting in the first pew, stoic and pale, insolently dressed in a long sweater and faded jeans. He looked chillingly familiar, but I couldn't quite place him. A line of studs glittered under the chapped curve of his lower lip. As I watched him, he eyed me with obvious disdain, then leaned forward to light a cigarette in the flame of a white altar candle. The tip glowed vulgarly against the clean wax.

"A cop in a church," he scoffed. He didn't break our gaze as he tapped ash into an open hymn book, red light flickering in his eyes. "Hell's bells. And I thought _I_ was the biggest hypocrite in Mass."

I struggled for a suitable defense. "Hypocrisy is just a part of human nature," I suggested finally.

"So's sin," jeered the man. "But I'm not the one calling it 'justice' just because I'm sitting behind a blue shield."

Before I could respond to that, two clean hands reached out to reclaim the man's hymn book and gently pat the pages free of ash. "Shields are a part of living, too. We need them, and I know God allows them. If death is easier than life, what are we still doing here?"

I turned around. "Father!"

"Please, Kenneth," he said, taking my hand warmly in his, "call me _Pip_."

I couldn't meet his gaze, so I stared at his clerical collar instead, the cleanest white I'd ever seen. "That's hardly appropriate," I argued.

"Why not? I don't call you 'detective.'"

"Right, because that would be an insult."

That was half true. I couldn't address him as a familiar because it wasn't fair to him. He had never been one of us. Only when he stood up in the pulpit had we realized that his calling had always been to occupy a higher moral station, but even after three years, the townsfolk were still catching their breath when they saw him. Light seemed to follow him wherever he walked. He existed outside of our reality of welfare and crude bucolic slang. The worst part about owing him an apology was the knowledge that he had already forgiven me-had, perhaps, never begrudged me in the first place.

"Disparagement of the police force certainly is the custom here, but it's a philosophy I've had no reason to subscribe to," said Pip serenely, collecting stray pamphlets from the ground. "You are doing the best you can, aren't you?"

"Always," I said.

"That doesn't mean it's enough," the man in black said loudly.

Pip paused to regard him. "Could we speak privately, please?"

The man seemed momentarily startled by his request. "Fine," he said at last, flicking his cigarette aside. "Fine, whatever you want." He exited the pew on my side of the aisle, standing slowly, allowing his height to threateningly dwarf mine. His eyes blazed. Instead of giving Pip the same hostile treatment, he reached out to straighten the tiny crucifix around his neck, pausing to watch it shimmer between his pale fingers. "Don't give this bastard anything, Father," he warned calmly. "He's working for the wrong side."

Pip gently brushed his hand away. Unnerved by this encounter, I took a step forward, but Pip quickly caught my sleeve and held me back as the man sauntered towards the doors. His footfalls made no sound; only a low creaking noise announced his leisurely departure from the church. The candlelight fluttered. As soon the flames had settled, Pip sat down in a pew.

"Why didn't you let me say anything?" I asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," Pip said.

"He was making you uncomfortable."

Something in Pip's expression seemed to tremble. "Well, _he_ wasn't. But you're right. Discomfort was always part of this job."

In any other witness, this type of vulnerability would've been begging for exploitation, but I couldn't bring myself to emotionally eviscerate Pip as readily as we had Craig and Clyde and even Kyle. What bearing did such malicious cross-examination have on someone so decent, so sensitive? I readjusted my procedure, trying to find an angle that wasn't so contemptible.

"I'm here to talk to you about Eric Cartman," I said finally. "You were at his funeral."

Pip didn't answer immediately. One of his hands slid unconsciously towards his pocket for his chaplet. The blue onyx beads were polished free of fingerprints, and he gazed down at them awkwardly, biting his lower lip. "Craig picked me up in the morning," he said. "I knew Thomas would be there, and Token and Clyde agreed to drive up separately."

"You wanted to tell Butters what Eric was doing to Kyle."

"Yes," Pip admitted faintly.

A flare of anger threatened to bloom in my stomach, but I couldn't have sustained it if I tried. What came over me instead was exhausting and somehow deadened. "So how long have you known?"

"I…haven't. Not in a way that counts."

"What do you mean?"

He turned to look at me. His eyes were damp, helpless. "You must've had questions of your own morality during the course of this investigation," he said pleadingly. He cupped the chaplet closer. "You are a good person, but as a law enforcer, you have to recognize that certain types of disclosures are prohibited. Things like suppression orders. How do you honor your loyalty to the system without losing sight of who you are? Must being a professional always come at the cost of being humane?"

The brush-offs I'd given Stan. Speaking to Kyle like a convict, as if our friendship had never happened. "Ideally, you find a job in which those things are one and the same," I said, sidestepping.

Pip looked away again. "But this situation is so far from ideal."

I belatedly realized the cheapness of my response. He was asking me an honest, personal question, hoping for some insight that no one else had been able to provide. I didn't know why he'd turned to me, but the least I could do was tell him how I really felt. Maybe my thoughts would help him more than they had me.

"Pledging yourself to a cause doesn't mean agreeing with every part of it," I said haltingly. "The job doesn't define you; you're defined by the job-freedom of thought guarantees at least that. I think it's important to operate in a professional capacity for as long as is ethically possible. But when I come to that junction-when my job finally demands an unacceptable comprise-you can trust me to chose the route that keeps me closer to who I really am. After all, all of these things start and end with us."

Something about my answer upset him. Pip put one hand to his mouth, trying to collect himself. "No, of course you're right," he said eventually, still holding onto his wavering smile. "I'm just afraid I've lost myself. I've…been trying so hard to _play_ the part of a good person that I've completely forgotten what it's like to truly be one."

The words were so ridiculous that it took me a moment to formulate a response. "What? You're the moral pillar of our community. You're the best person I've ever met."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Pip said bleakly.

He stood up and began gathering books again. There was a jerkiness in his movement that hadn't been there before; he kept dropping the hymnals as he fumbled them out of their wire racks. I automatically moved to help him. Pip gratefully accepted my assistance. We stacked the volumes on a high shelf near the door, above which the "REPENT" etching was still visible if you looked closely, despite Pip's efforts to conceal it with new finish. He leaned dismally against the wall. The flourishes on the R and the P slashed down through the wood like arrows.

"Please forgive me," he said softly, shutting his eyes. "I can only talk to you if you get a subpoena, and even then, the information will be limited. Eric Cartman has nothing to hold over me except my pledge to God. If I could have spoken to you three years ago, I would have."

I hesitated, wanting to beg him to cut us some fucking slack. "There's no way you could-?"

"No, not without compromising what little decency I have left."

"Don't you think you're being too hard on yourself?" I said, deeply disturbed by his self-depreciating tone.

"I've been too _lenient_." Pip had finally lost the last semblance of his smile. "I will tell you this: if you want the testimony of a priest when Kyle goes to court, you will have to move quickly. Of course I'll hold on for as long as I can, but I owe it to God-no, I owe it to _myself_-to be honest. I'm…" he steeled himself suddenly, drew his hands into fists. "I'm leaving the church."

My mouth dropped open. "You-_what_? Why would you do that?"

"Trust me to chose the route that keeps me closer to who I really am," he said simply, quoting my own words back at me. His eyes sparkled with tears. "This is for the best. I promise."

I did trust him. And, for that reason, there was nothing more to say.

"Thank you for your time, Father," I said, opening the door. I squeezed his hand gently before stepping outside. "Pip."

His face brightened a little at the token of friendship. I'd never felt such pride in someone's contentment, knowing I had prompted it. "Yes-yes, Kenneth," Pip said. "May God bless you." He gave me a lingering, appreciative smile before closing the door behind me, tucking himself alone into the Lord's humble house.

I sighed in the sunlight, sitting down on the steps to take a breather. The world seemed paler to me beyond the church's walls, ugly and gray and asphalted. I wondered how Kyle had felt in Mass. This place had been forced on him, religious rape, doubtlessly born of Eric's deep hatred for Judaism. Had he ever managed to feel the beauty of our place of worship? Had he caved to the famed Catholic pressure? After all, he had covered seamlessly for Pip, just as he had Christophe and Clyde and Craig.

That's what bothered me most of all: their unspoken affinity. Surely Pip had his reasons, but what could've prevented someone so ethically sound from stepping forward about such a serious crime?

"He's bound by confession."

Startled out of my thoughts, I wheeled around. The man from the pew was standing at the curb, now wearing a battered suit jacket that looked like it had once been about three hundred dollars worth of tailored Italian wool. The juxtaposition was dizzying. His eyes were still cold, but there was a thin, cruel new amusement in his expression, like a cat playing with a mouse. Against my better judgment, I struggled for a reply. "Uh-what? He is? How would you know that?"

"Oh, I'm always around here," said the man, dripping sarcasm. "I like to broaden my _spiritual horizons_. Have excellent hearing, too, which makes confession days a lot more exciting."

"That's sickening," I snapped.

"You'll pardon me if I don't give a fuck about your high-minded principles, Blue."

"Listen, what do you have against the police?"

"Organized justice is about as ridiculous and destructive as organized religion, is all. Do you want my information or not?"

I glared. "You're not bound by confession too, are you?"

"The only thing I'm bound by is the determination to not be bound by anything." He shifted his hair out of his face with a careless swipe of his hand, rustling his earrings. Even without the candlelight, his eyes seemed red. "Life is a whole lot easier when nothing is sacred," he said, smiling. "Strike a deal with the devil here. I'll can tell you anything."

I turned away, immediately repelled by his choice of idiom.

He sighed long-sufferingly. There was a rustle as he swept up his coattails to sit beside me on the steps, smelling faintly of something dark and dense, like musky incense. "This is a fucking lame time to grow a conscience, detective. I'll just talk, how about that? I'll talk to myself, and you'll just happen to overhear?"

"Why the pretenses?" I grumbled, still not quite able to look at him. "You're going to tell me that there's no such thing as clean information in a case like this."

"Ah, now you're getting it!" he declared, beaming radiantly.

Fuck this. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He pursed his lips and pretended to be contemplating where to start. Every move he made was showy, exaggerated. I could see his trinkets up close now. The studs were steel pins with flattened heads, like nails, and the labret piece I had taken for a ball bearing was actually a tiny pentagram. It had flipped upside-down. He tongued it in a slow circle, smiling. "Who first, then? Cartman or Kyle?"

I watched it move, feeling disoriented. I'd never realized that the simple progress of that one symbol bridged the wide gap between the Left-Hand Path and Jerusalem's old seal. "Kyle," I said.

"Kyle, Kyle." He laughed. "Oh, near the beginning, he was hilariously scathing. 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I think in oy veys instead of amens. I want to run away and join a synagogue. I burnt a casserole last night; do you count that by extension, since my poor cooking forces my fiancé to resort to culinary adultery? I mean, a man should only eat his lady's food. I'm sure everyone else who comes here has a fine Catholic stomach.'"

I tried to stop the nervous laughter that rose inside of me and didn't quite succeed. "Wow."

"My kind of guy," he agreed. "Then he got sappy."

"How so?"

The man's voice grew suddenly reverent. "Father Pirrup. He's more of a guidance counselor than a priest. Could get you to weep about what you ate for breakfast, if he so wished-within a month, four Sundays, Kyle had told him everything."

"Everything?" I repeated incredulously.

"Yeah, he's that good. You should hear the things he drew out of everyone before they finally lost faith. Clyde Donovan: 'I'm a thief and a liar, but I'm really faithful to my wife.' Craig Tucker: 'Sorry about the sodomy, but at least I'm not a thief or a liar.' Even you pal Counselor Williams stopped by to say, 'God have mercy, I'm a _lawyer_, but I'm really just trying to protect the thieves and liars and sodomites.' Kyle spilled the beans, too. Right down to Cartman's favorite position." He leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper, feigning secrecy. "Inverted missionary, if you can believe it. He liked to make Kyle do all the hard work. Get it-'hard?'"

That was enough. I finally yanked back, my face flaming. "Jesus, have a little goddamn respect!" I yelled. "This isn't a fucking sideshow; these are your neighbors! I'm not in this for the shock value!"

He shrugged, smirked. "Yeah, I just wanted to see if I could make you take the Lord's name in vain right outside a church." He was talking again before I had time to respond, angry and staggered. "You can imagine how it all went down. Father Pirrup tried to assign him Hail Marys, but he always ended up begging him to speak to him outside of confession. All he technically needed was a word, _one single word_ when they weren't in the box, and then the two of them could skip off together to speak to the police. But Kyle never gave him that chance. He would just say, 'Thank you, Father,' and then take his leave."

"Why?" I said weakly.

He rolled his eyes. "You think he could talk with Cartman waiting outside for him?"

"Yes. Sure. What would Eric do if he saw them speaking, whip out a gun and open fire on a Sunday congregation?"

"Yeah, but he'd probably bend Father Pirrup over the altar and sodomize him first."

That crude informality somehow pissed me off even more deeply than his objectification of Kyle. Unable to even speak, I hauled myself to my feet and turned to walk away.

"Hey, I'm not pulling your prick, Johnny Law," he called after me, and suddenly, his voice had changed-it was booming, timeless, grim and resonant enough to stop me dead in my tracks. His gaze set a fire to my nerves. He stood up behind me. "You're right, this is no sideshow. I hold Father Pirrup in the _highest_ possible respect. Those weren't my words. They were Cartman's."

I turned around unwillingly. "Eric-threatened him?"

"Of course not. That would've been prosecutable. He terrorized him under a guise of piety." His pitch heightened in vicious imitation: "'Bless me, Father. I have fantasies about fucking you to a grand rendition of Gloria in Excelsis. I masturbate during sermon. When my boyfriends are sucking me off, I try to imagine that you're the one on your knees, and you're trying to pray as you blow me.'" He smiled his strange detached smile again. "Those were the tamer ones."

The idea of Pip listening to this was intolerable. I was furiously unsettled, and I had taken no vows of chastity. "How did he react?"

"He did what every good priest does," he said lightly. "He gave him penance. Graciously absolved him of his sins. Sometimes he would tremble for hours afterwards, but at least his confessor went home happy."

I smacked my hands angrily against the metal balustrade. Fuck Eric Cartman. Fuck anyone who could subject the finest of human beings to such profligate psychological abuse for-what? A thrill? One more achievement to throw in his blackened file? His bringing Kyle to church had been repulsive enough, but he had proceeded to drag a priest into it and penalize him for years because of his dedication to his cause. Eric's only religion was sadism. It was like swerving onto a sidewalk to hit a passerby. Near the end, Pip had probably been clinging to Kyle as hard as Kyle had been holding onto him. They were in it together, even if they only had each other in the anonymity of a confessional booth.

The man had finally grown quiet, the rhythm of our conversation broken by my silence. He put his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket and looked at the closed door. There were angels carved in the handles, rubbed faceless by years of sacred endeavors.

"I'm in love with Father Pirrup," he said abruptly. "I hate church, but I come here every day just to be close to him, hear his voice."

I looked at him sharply. "Oh my god. You are unbelievably out of line. I feel terrible for both of you. He might as well be pandering himself in a gas station bathroom for all the respect you and Eric showed him."

"I'm not Cartman. He's not afraid of me."

"You're still a fucking vulture, waiting for him to break down so you can pick through the pieces and take what's left."

He hit the door thunderously with his fist, making it jump in its hinges. I held my ground this time. His eyes were searing as he stepped down a step so that our faces were level, finally and resentfully acknowledging me as an equal.

"The difference is that Cartman could've taken what he wanted by force," he growled. "I can't, because all I want is for Father Pirrup to be _happy_. Yeah, he's sworn himself to something more glorious. I have to accept that. But I love him so much that I'll wait. He may never quit the priesthood, but I promised that I would always be here on the off chance that-maybe someday-all he'll want is to feel human again."

He didn't know about Pip's upcoming resignation. I wanted to console him, but I also wanted to laugh in his face. "He's an exceptional person," I said. "You've got a lot working against you."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you have _no_ idea."

I didn't have time to inquire. Pip must've heard him hit the door, because he suddenly pulled it open, out of breath, as if he'd had to run across the church to answer it. "Are you all right?" Pip panted, brushing his hair behind his ears. He looked at me then, his eyes so open and apologetic, still a little red. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were still here! I should have invited you back inside!"

"No, I was just leaving," I said, pulling away from the man. "Thank you again for your time."

"Your waste of time, rather. If there were _anything_ I could do-"

"Really, I understand." And now I did. Maybe a little too much. I wanted to grab his hands and swear to him that Eric would never threaten him again, but his security was something that would have to come in time. Like Stan's…like Kyle's. I turned to the man, wishing I had time to take back at least some of the antagonism of our discussion. Prick or not, he had helped me immeasurably. "Hey. Thank you."

He gave me a grin, still guarded, but without heat. "Whatever."

I began walking back to the car. My feet were heavy. I felt divided. My revulsion over what had transpired between Eric and Pip mixed querulously with the relief that it would never happen again. Was absolution really so simple? One act of penance and all the wrongs were righted; someone abhorrent could die without the weight of a neighborhood's lives on his soul, his conscience. I knew why people went to confession: between church and house, there was a small window that opened up on a horizon of blameless death. Cheap relief, designed for the sinners. Everyone in the world had a shot at moral invincibility. But what of those thousands who actually survived the walk home?

I was almost out of earshot when Pip touched the man's shoulder. "What did you tell him?" Pip asked softly. "Please don't say you violated the sacrament of-"

"Hey, _you_ told him nothing," he said. "That's what counts, isn't it?"

Pip let out a slow breath. "Damien-"

"Shh, Let's go inside. I'll help you mail the donations."

_Damien._

I whirled around, stumbling into a trash can. Holy fuck. _That's_ where I had seen him.

Damien looked over his shoulder and threw me a mocking wink, his eyes glowing red even from halfway down the block, then opened the door for Pip. Pip disappeared inside, already brightening as he explained the upcoming Thanksgiving Mass. Damien paused for a slow moment to breathe his passing scent, one hand stealing out for the faintest touch of blond hair. He sighed. Then, after waiting a few more seconds for Pip to gain a modest distance, he followed him silently into the church and closed the big oak door securely behind them.

"Go in the peace of Christ," I said disbelievingly, crossed myself one final time, and slowly began walking back to my car.

* * *

Harris, Johnson, and Gregory were conferring loudly in my office when I returned to the station, their voices rapid and muffled from behind the glass. None of them looked up when I tapped on the door, but Gregory held up one finger, then turned slightly so I wouldn't be able to read his lips. I took the hint and walked back to the holding cells. Someone must've spoken to him about me, because the warden nodded in greeting and released the padlock without protest. Kyle looked up as I entered the room and closed the door halfway, his smile grateful but wan.

"Detective McCormick," he said.

"Mr. Broflovski," I returned, feeling like an asshole. We couldn't hug with the camera on. I held out a hand, and he quickly took it in both of his, clinging to me with silent fervency. This close, I could see what time and confinement had done to him. His skin was fairer. The tiny constellation of freckles on his left cheek had disappeared. He could finally open his injured eye all the way, but he had to blink often, and his irises were deepening to a pale brown in places. The green still shone out like a signal flare when he looked back at the window and caught the sun across his face, the color never truer.

"They're sending me to the state prison soon, aren't they?" he asked.

"We'll see what happens." I nodded towards his cot, scrambling for neutral ground. "Uh-this is nice."

"Inspector Harris set it up for me," Kyle said, smiling again, this time with more sincerity. "He's an exceptional man. I haven't eaten anything kosher for a long time, but when I told him I intended to renew the practice, he started monitoring my meals to make sure they were correct. And the pillows and sheets, of course. Especially the sheets. If it ever got to the point where-um, well. He's kind. They're…very comfortable."

I knew what he was going to say. Men in prison hanged frequently themselves with their linens when it got to be too much. The thought made my stomach churn. Kyle looked immediately remorseful.

"Listen, you know I wouldn't-"

"I hope to god not. Not after all of this."

"I _wouldn't_," Kyle repeated. "I kissed Stan this morning. I can make it at least another ten years."

The sheer simplicity of that assertion was what moved me. I should've known by then that Stan and Kyle had something that nothing in the world could touch, but it was beautiful in a way that struck me over and over again, each time a little harder. I could barely speak. "So…does he visit you?"

Kyle sighed, slow and contented. "Every time he has the chance. He's-busy. He's trying to figure some things out. Token came to speak with me this morning, too, and they left together to talk."

My heart leapt. "Any idea what they're planning?" I said, with attempted casualness.

"Not really," Kyle said. "Papers exchange hands, if that helps."

It didn't. He sat back down on the cot and cleared a space to his left, patting it to get my attention. I was tired of standing up. I took a seat and winced as the joints in my knees crackled, feeling so much older than I had last week. I wonder how I looked to him. Somewhere along the road, I'd lost ten years too, and while my time hadn't passed as slowly or painfully, it was just as indistinct and irrecoverable. I knew it could've been worse, though. Some people had lost even more.

"I talked to Butters, Clyde, and Pip," I said eventually.

Kyle froze immediately. "You-why? How did they get involved?"

"They were at Eric's funeral. Butters was mourning the love of his life; he never knew about you. Did you know about him?"

"The name did slip out a couple of times while Cartman was fucking me," Kyle said stiffly. "Apparently Butters gives better head. I mean-Jesus Christ, I can't believe I said that. Look at what I've become. Isn't it absurd that I got to the point where I was jealous of his other conquests? The bastard said Pip's name, too." A look of horror suddenly lit his expression. "No-please tell me he didn't have Pip! I couldn't stop him from taking the others, but Pip was-"

"He never touched Pip," I said quickly. "Scared him quite badly in confession, but kept his hands to himself. He's safe. He and Clyde are both safe from prosecution, too."

"Thank god for that," Kyle whispered.

I studied him for a long time, confused. The scars on his face and his abused wrists, still ringed with purple and now chapped from the handcuffs. "I still don't understand why you're so forgiving. Clyde incriminated himself through a very valid crime, and you told him that it was okay, that you'd keep living as Eric's sex slave just to protect him. I understand Pip's dilemma, but you could have rectified that. Made a plan. How hard was it to say, 'Father Pirrup, make sure you're safe in the police station when you call to have Eric arrested?' You were never as helpless as you thought you were. It was like you just gave up near the end."

Kyle laughed, stroking his bangs back. There were faint webs of lines peeking out from his hairline, the distinctive signs of poorly-healed homemade stitches. "Yeah, that's because I _did_ give up," he said softly. "Oh, sure, I dreamt of escape, but so _distantly_. Fucking cryptograms? Writing letters to Christophe in _France_? I never expected it to work."

"Really?" I said, dubious.

"I didn't count on it. Maybe I could've done better, but…Cartman had me conditioned to the point where I was too terrified to step outside, especially with the Denver Police and all of the expendable quarries he'd built up over the years. I fought him tooth and nail for years, and what happened? I paid for my crimes and other people paid with me. Clyde was blackmailed. Pip went to church every day wondering if Cartman was finally going to snap and attack him." He turned away, slumping. "When I found out Christophe had been hit with the car, all I could think was, 'Oh god, _I did it again_.'"

"But it never worked that way," I said, desperate to ease his guilt. "Christophe is going to be fine, okay? Pip is fine! I know you made a sacrifice for Clyde and his family; they're going to start thriving now, and don't you think Butters deserved to know the truth about the man he was living with? Despite how badly these people were hurt, none of this shit is going to live past Eric. The Denver station is being disbarred. You overestimated him and underestimated everyone else, including yourself. No one is _ruined_. Everyone is moving on."

He covered his mouth, breath whistling through his fingers as he struggled to hold back tears. "What…? No. You don't really believe that, do you? Not _everyone_ made it."

It was my turn to freeze. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean-why would I let him rule my life with empty threats? I'm not that easy! No, he made it very clear to me that he wasn't all talk, very early on."

"What did he do?" I demanded. "You need to tell me! Stop trying to 'protect' these people!"

"No, that's not what I'm doing!" Kyle cried. "But they're just not going to cooperate unless you do _your_ part first! This isn't on me, Kenny, it's on _you_. Please tell me that you've got a lead! This is bigger than the law!"

I jerked my head up at that. _Bigger than the law_. Where the fuck had I heard that recently? Something else had been nagging at me, too-earlier, when we were talking about Pip, when Kyle had made that terrified outburst: _I couldn't stop him from taking the others_. He'd never actually harmed Pip or Clyde. Butters had been Eric's only other bedmate, hadn't he, so why the plural? What kind of "others" had there been-and who were we missing?

It dawned on me slowly. The one potential witness that we hadn't been able to speak to, and who hadn't been at the funeral to blow the whistle on Eric. Someone I had kept up with only in rumors and reputation for at least eight years…since graduation.

_Cartman had a _thing_ for blonds_, Kyle had said.

"Tweek?" I whispered.

I didn't have time to get more answers. I didn't even have time to gauge Kyle's reaction, which surely would've been guilty and transparent enough to form an alibi around. Kyle was just sucking in a sharp breath to reply when the door down the hall banged open, followed shortly by the sound of the front door-and Craig Tucker's furious yells of protest.

"McCormick, behind the glass, now!" Johnson shouted.

My instincts had pulled me out of the cell and past the warden before Kyle even had time to wish me good luck.

* * *

End of part three

* * *

Craig has drama in the next chapter. My head hurts; I should have been doing my homework for the past twelve hours. Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I'm so sorry it took me seven months to update this monster! I got busy with school, and I found some serious problems I had to iron out. All of this, and I still didn't manage to fit the last bit in, damn it-there is an epilogue pending-but I think it might work out better this way. Shouldn't there be a change of pace between the before and the after? A final chapter break might do some of my work for me. Thank you all so much for reading this far, and thank you to any new readers who are joining me. Huge thanks to _everyone_. I'm super tired and emotional and can't explain just how much I appreciate the undeserved amount of feedback this melodramatic and confusing story has received.

Warnings: an army of red herrings, language, liberties with police procedure, mentions of violence, StanxKyle, CraigxThomas…really, too many other pairings. I hope I ended this on a note that isn't completely desolate, but if it's just too horrible to handle, know that there is an epilogue coming and things do change.

I'm so worried about this chapter! I'm mostly out of cheap tricks. Mostly. Thank you thank you thank you for clicking on this story. I really want you to enjoy it.

* * *

Lex Talionis

* * *

The private documents that Johnson had shown Gregory earlier hadn't given them legal cause to pull Craig in for questioning, but his physical outbursts had. The South Park shift had been waiting for him to arrive in Dawson's custody when I returned from the church. I pulled up a chair behind the two-way mirror as Craig took a seat in interrogation with his wrists cuffed, Dawson huffing and glaring beside him, Gregory with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Montgomery's hand had bruised a ring around his arm. Like Dawson, Gregory looked tired and grim and pissed off.

"Mr. Tucker, we only needed to talk to you," he said. "The lieutenant is too kind to have forgiven you once. The next time you physically threaten an officer, there _will_ be charges."

"Do it, shit heaps," Craig challenged. "Still doesn't get you what you want."

Gregory eyed him with thin patience. "And what do you think we want?"

"You want me to rot in jail for withholding information. You want the helpless insubordinate to play Public Enemy Number One for the papers because your sister station missed its chance at a serial fucking rapist."

"You'd make a better hero if weren't so set upon playing the villain," Gregory said, his voice cold. He tossed a packet of papers onto the table in front of him. "Tell me what this is."

An identical file was waiting for me on my desk. I picked it up and flipped through it, the pages still warm from the copy machine. It was a shakily-written report of sexual assault. The handwriting was tremulous, swimming all over the page in ragged print-it had clearly been written after the onset of a crippling trauma. Such a rare exhibition of immediacy. Waves of shock still emanated openly from each letter. I found the last page and felt my heart begin thudding harder in my chest.

The witness line sported Craig's signature, but the accuser's name was "Tweak, Richard T."

Tweek had been named from his father. And Sergeant Cartman had taken his own name from his _victim_.

Six years. This had happened six years ago. It would've been two years after graduation, one year since Craig had opened the Laundromat. I still remembered the ribbon-cutting ceremony, how there had been a slight delay because Tweek was afraid to use the scissors. Thomas did the honors instead. That following business season was when Tweek had flourished unexpectedly, thriving in the safety and fond attentions of his new roommates. He appeared to sleep better and spoke more fluently. His mannerisms grew warmer, almost flirtatious. That was what had spawned the talk that he had a nice thing going with Craig and Thomas behind closed doors, but if their relationship was more than platonic, they were all too gentlemanly to say so. Their mutual respect was unspoken and sacred.

There was nothing of that closed-lipped charm in Craig now, nothing that believed in discretion. He had kept his silence for too long.

"This would be the report that we put in not five hours after the rape," Craig told Gregory, speaking with a sudden, barely-controlled dignity. "Did you consider it might also be what I have against the police? Do you have any idea how _Tweek_ felt about this?"

"You know very well that this is the first time we've seen it," Gregory said. "Leopold Stotch stored it upon Eric Cartman's request."

"Ah, of course the fucker kept it," said Craig. "Memorized it. Masturbated to it frequently."

"He named himself from Mr. Tweak."

Craig leaned forward to meet his eyes. "You figure that one out all by yourself?"

Gregory's response was lost to me as Harris knocked on the door and gestured down the corridor. I stood up to look. Thomas had just arrived at the station, his cheeks flushed red with the cold, and was demanding to see Craig at the front desk. The North Park officer was getting flustered; Thomas' unmanageable language was escalating the situation considerably. I gave Harris a reluctant nod. Harris turned around and called for Thomas, taking his coat as he led him to our interrogation room. "-needed him for questioning," Harris was saying as they got into earshot. "He took a swing at Dawson. They pulled him in, but I don't think they're pressing charges."

Thomas opened the door and stopped short when he saw me. "Where-" he began.

"Quiet," I said, pushing out a chair for him. "Sit down."

He started to refuse, saw Craig on the other side of the glass, then swallowed and lowered himself immediately beside me. His eyes were glistening.

Inside, Dawson was unlocking Craig's cuffs. When his hands were free, Craig shook off his jacket and tossed it aside, crossing his arms over his chest. His new tattoo stood out angrily on his bicep. Gregory tilted his head to read it.

"'Lex talionis.'"

"The law of retaliation," Craig said, without passion. "'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, an arm for an arm, a life for a life.' Or so they claim. Kyle would laugh at it, too. Where's his fucking retribution?"

"Why keep the adage so close if you don't believe in it?" Gregory asked.

"Because maybe I'll have reason to someday. What can I say? I'm a fucking dreamer."

Gregory didn't flinch at the sudden acidity in his voice. "This document, Mr. Tucker. Please."

Instead of shooting off another reflexive deflection, Craig paused to look back at it, and that's what got him. His shoulders slumped. Slowly, he picked up the file. The pages were crinkled in places, brittle and aged, crisp with six-year-old tears. Craig put the back of his hand to his mouth, shivering. He had taken off his baseball cap earlier, but now he shoved it on again with shaky force, almost obscuring the fierce twist in his expression. He took a long time to collect himself.

"I can't keep taking this," he said finally. Startled by the weakness of his own voice, he cleared his throat, spoke again, stronger: "Do you understand? After this, I'm done. You will never speak to me about this again, unless you're going for posthumous conviction. I poured my fucking heart out, and look where the paperwork ended up."

"We have it now, and it isn't going anywhere," Gregory said.

"Yeah, famous last words." Craig quieted. "That's what Cartman told Kyle when he came to pick him up again. 'You're not going anywhere.'"

To my left, Thomas swore under his breath and let out a tiny, humorless laugh. "He remembers _that_, but he can't pick up a damn gallon of milk on his way back to the apartment."

I turned to him with distress, not sure how to respond. Luckily, Craig took that moment to pick up his narrative, fingers still poised on the edge of the stack of papers. I had never known he was so capable of such exposed sensitivity. For all his posturing, Craig was just as hurt as the rest of us.

"We were all twenty. Me, Thomas, and…Tweek. We were out of debt and making a profit from the laundromat, all the loans paid off and everything-like, it was the only time life was really _good_, when we actually thought things were going to stay tolerable, or even get better. None of us ever had delusions of grandeur, either. All we wanted was to generate more business and keep the apartment and maybe someday get our locks fixed. That was it. We kept our goals simple so we wouldn't get fucked over. Pretty funny, when you think about it."

Eric would agree. Gregory's brow knitted. Dawson continued to stand there, listening without defensiveness, no longer playing bodyguard. There was no fight left in Craig.

"Thomas and I were on shift when Kyle came in," Craig said. "I was surprised. I asked him what he was doing back in town."

"You recognized him?" asked Gregory.

"His face was different, thinner, but you know-it was him. His hair."

So Kyle hadn't dyed it back then, I thought, then felt my stomach knot. Of course he wouldn't have. Eric hadn't developed his taste for blonds until _after_ he'd had Tweek; that crime was likely what had lured him out of secrecy into a bolder world, one in which he freely blackmailed grocers and propositioned priests and ran people down in front of police stations. Because then, gloriously, he realized that he could get away with it.

"Kyle was in shock," Craig continued, sitting very still. "Later, we found out that it was the first time he'd been out of Cartman's house in about four years. We couldn't understand what he was saying, though. Who would believe what had happened to him? He tried to explain that he'd never moved away, had been living as Cartman's prisoner, but it was all so fucking unfathomable. We didn't know what to think. He looked at a newspaper we had sitting on the counter, picked it up, and asked what year it was. When we told him, he thought we were lying. He had to see three more papers before it started to sink in."

"Did you believe him then?" asked Gregory.

Craig snorted. "Not really. Would you? But-Thomas did. He told him to wait until his mother got back with the car, then he'd take him to the police station in Cañon City or Fairplay. Kyle was so relieved he was crying. Then he realized-we _all_ realized-that Cartman hadn't followed him."

The sheer terror of that awareness. Kyle's heart must've fucking stopped. Both behind the glass and in interrogation, all five of us were silent, just waiting for Craig to breathe. Thomas' hand crept towards me. Without thinking, I took it in my own and squeezed.

"Cartman saw where he was going," Craig said, emotionlessly, "so he didn't even drive to the laundromat. He just went straight to our apartment and opened the door. Remember the locks we were trying to get fixed? Yeah. We had no security system. Tweek was standing at the counter sorting old bills. All Cartman had to do was walk in, grab him from behind, and throw him to the floor."

Craig was going to spare us the particulars, but I had Tweek's report in front of me. Tweek had written everything with courageous detail-Eric batting him around with cheerful playfulness, Eric dragging him casually into positions he liked. He'd taunted him openly about Craig and Thomas, demanding to know the mechanics of their physical involvement. _He just wanted to take away everything that meant anything to me_, Tweek had scribbled, the letters so shaky they were nearly illegible. _He kept saying, "Why would they want you? They have each other."_

"I don't think he was supposed to live through it," Craig said suddenly, drawing the brim of his hat even further down over his eyes. His voice finally cracked. "Fuck it, I mean, no one should have to go through what he did, and he was getting better about things, but he was still afraid of the fucking _toaster_, you know? Staying alive and staying _sentient_ were the bravest things he'd ever done."

I wanted to feel relief with the knowledge of Tweek's survival…but I couldn't. Neither could Craig, hard as he had tried.

"I didn't have the sedan then, but I ran those five blocks when I finally realized what could be happening to him. Passed Cartman on the stairs. Couldn't even fucking stop because I was too afraid that Tweek was already bleeding to death or something. When I got into the apartment, I found out that Cartman had left him in the shower with the water on to get rid of the physical evidence. He wasn't breathing; I had to do CPR. Five reps. _Five_. Tweek didn't want to come back, and I forced him. That was worse than what Cartman had done, wasn't it? At the very least, every human deserves the chance to die when he wants to."

"You know that's not true," said Dawson. "Try telling Broflovski that he should've just given up. Tell Marsh that he should've allowed Broflovski to pass on if he truly loved him."

Craig laughed loudly, without humor. "That's _Stanley and Kyle_, not me and Tweek! We live in the _real_ world! Don't judge anyone by their standards; we're not all the invincible residue of some old fucking fairytale! Tweek barely left his house until high school, and then he arbitrarily got attacked by a former classmate in the safety of his own home. What the fuck kind of authority do you think I had over him, anyway? This fucking town; everyone talks. None of us were _together_. He was a virgin before Cartman. We never had sex, but I've never stopped loving him, either!"

The air in surveillance felt suddenly too thin. Thomas had stiffened beside me.

"Here's the kicker," Craig continued, gaining motion. "Tweek just wanted to forget everything that had happened. _I_ was the one who told him no, that we were going to go to the police, and he was going to be brave and fill out the report to put Cartman behind bars. Tweek called me a heartless bastard. I didn't even let him _change clothes_. I had to carry him to Thomas' mother's car and he cried the whole way there, but I promised that everything would be okay, because I was driving him to the best station in the state."

"Denver," said Gregory, closing his eyes.

"Yes, Denver. Fucking _Denver_. By then, Cartman and the commissioner were the best of friends. Montgomery took one look at the suspect line and told Tweek to his face that he was a fucking liar." Craig's voice rose. "See where I'm going with this? We didn't even get to say Kyle's name. We were turned out of the station because we had 'no definitive case.' Tweek was still bleeding between the legs, and _we had no definitive case_! Montgomery 'lost' the paperwork and Tweek and I both got a little note in our files that said, 'These kids just want attention, ignore them.' And this was a problem for me, but not for Tweek. Because two days later he just packed a bag and disappeared."

Dawson let out a low, disbelieving breath. "You have no idea where he is?"

"None at all. He could be dead. I hope he is, anyway."

"You don't really."

Craig looked at him, his eyes narrowed and brimming with unshed tears. He clearly already regretted what he'd said. "Listen, I just hope he's found a little fucking peace."

Gregory seemed unsure whether or not he should look Craig in the eyes. "Did you stop at the launderette before you went to Denver?"

"Yeah. Cartman had already come back for Kyle. Thomas told me that he tried to stop them, but Cartman told Kyle that every time he left the house, one of his friends was going to take his place in bed. He hit Thomas, you know. Gave him a black eye and locked him in the supply closet. Thomas wasn't even afraid, he was furious…and heartsick. He stayed there while I took Tweek to Denver and phoned the Fairplay Police, but they couldn't do anything, either-Kyle was chained back in hiding. We didn't even know which house he'd come from; there was no way for him to step forward. Two hours later, Fairplay left. Right after they'd gotten the commissioner's memo."

"Was there nothing more you could have done?" Gregory asked. "Could someone else in town have authenticated your story? Perhaps a higher authority-"

There was a deafening _bang_ as Craig slammed his fists on the metal table, making it jump. "Fuck you, you don't get to say that to me!" he yelled. "I lost the best thing in my life trying to uphold justice! Tweek was bleeding in my arms when I told him that the police would make it all better! I didn't fail you; _you_ failed _me_! I gave up _everything_ to do what was right, and you're telling me I should have done _more_?"

"All right," said Gregory. "All right."

Craig's voice was shrill. "Exactly what the fuck do you want to hear?"

"Tell us what happened after that. With Mr. Broflovski."

"Kyle, Kyle, fucking Kyle. Sure, he came back eventually, now that Cartman had us under his thumb. Kyle did their laundry every once in a while, never with any schedule, so we couldn't just arrange to have the police waiting for him. I mean, we were a fucking _joke_ with the cops by then, anyway. They didn't even pick up the phone when we called. We had to keep a closet full of first-aid kits because Kyle was always showing up bleeding from the ears or something. We fed him, we bought him things, we tried to keep him breathing. We did the best we could! Just tell me I was wrong!"

Gregory couldn't say outright that he had done the right thing, so Dawson stepped in, quiet and cryptic: "Tucker, we're just sorry you paid for this."

"How _much_ did I pay for it, though?" asked Craig. "Do you have any idea? _Fifty-fucking-percent_ for six years. That's how much 'the right thing' cost me."

Next to me, Thomas broke my concentration by drawing in a sharp breath, closing both hands over his mouth. "No," he said quietly.

"Thomas?" I said, alarmed.

Dawson's voice echoed from interrogation. "Fifty-what, you were giving him half of your business proceeds? Why?"

"So he wouldn't do to Thomas what he'd done to Tweek," said Craig.

Thomas laughed. He crossed his arms over his abdomen, letting his eyes close. "Shit…of _course_. How ridiculous are we both, to have trusted _Cartman_ to keep his word?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

His smile was so strange, so calm. "When I was twenty-one, I made an arrangement with Cartman. I would meet him in a hotel once a month if he agreed not to steal profits from Craig."

I felt my heart plummet to my feet. Kyle, Butters, Tweek-and now Thomas, sacrificing himself to the man who had destroyed his best friends. Why had I expected anything less? This was South Park, where all bets were off. The laundromat was never meant to be a permanent business; it was a vehicle through which three young men were earning the means to escape. After everything that had happened, all Thomas wanted was to leave. How could he have realized that Eric was hampering them from both sides? Did the thought ever occur to him in those hotel rooms-and could he have changed anything with that knowledge, or would Eric have had him by force?

"Sex for money, _Craig's_ money," Thomas said suddenly, his voice cutting. "I know. I don't need you to tell me what that makes me."

"That's not what I was thinking," I said. "Not even close. Thomas…does Craig know?"

Thomas jerked his head up at that. "Fuck, no."

I leveled my gaze back inside the room. "Okay. But I think he should."

He tried to keep glaring at me, but he couldn't sustain his anger. He sank down in his seat. "It was just my body," he said softly, as if saying that made it any easier. "It was just my body."

Gregory was no longer conducting himself defensively. He'd taken a seat across from Craig, showing him a ledger that Kyle had kept a few years ago. "Even allowing for various bonuses, the total revenue is consistently disproportionate to Mr. Cartman's salary," he said, indicating the relevant margins. "We assumed it came from his mother, but this was _your_ income, wasn't it? Over the course of almost six years, he'd procured nearly-"

"Don't give me a number," Craig interrupted, his expression contorting. "I know exactly how much it was. By this time, we would've had enough to buy a new car or move across the country, go someplace where no one knows who we are. Cartman kept us on the shortest leash he could. There was a point a couple of years back when I took a second job just to balance the books a little better, so Thomas wouldn't have to see us in the red." He finally looked up, his gaze cloudy. "That was the worst of it, you know. Realizing that despite what we'd been through, we could never be together, because I couldn't even look Thomas in the eyes without remembering how badly I'd failed him."

"That's not how it looks to us; that's not how it'll look to him," said Dawson. "Have you even talked to him about this?"

"He deserves better than me," Craig said. "Loving someone is knowing when to let go. I did it for Tweek. Damned if I wouldn't do it again for Thomas."

Thomas clenched his hands against his chest. He mouthed Craig's name.

"You're being ridiculous," Gregory said, pulling the ledger away and snapping it shut to command Craig's full attention. "Surely you can permit yourself some peace? After all this, you managed to maintain faith in the form of someone you care about. If that's not worth pursuing, what is? Thomas is not Mr. Tweak. No one expects you to keep paying for something that was never your fault."

Dawson raised his eyebrows. Internally, I felt myself recalling that same surprise-this was the man who'd tried only yesterday to explain to me the virtues of dying alone.

Neither Thomas nor Craig knew him well enough to recognize this turnabout. Thomas was nodding minutely, his face oddly serene. Craig stared at Tweek's file for a long moment, his fingertips reverently tracing the fragile pages of the report.

Then, slowly, he folded it shut.

"I think I need to go home," he said haltingly. "Can I go home? It was…a long day."

"We appreciate your cooperation," said Dawson, then chuckled. "I mean, better late than never."

"No charges?"

"You're off the hook. I'm pretty sure that's the very least we could do for you now."

Craig scooped his jacket off the floor and put it on. The tattoo disappeared beneath the sleeve. _Lex talionis_, Latin's biggest lie. But before he stood up, Craig did something that none of us had expected: he reached out with quiet professionalism to shake Gregory's hand, then Dawson's. They were as taken aback by the gesture as I was. Craig merely secured his hat again and drew himself to his feet with a low sigh.

"Shit," Thomas said suddenly, jumping out of his chair. "I don't want him to know I was listening!"

I turned off the surveillance monitor and ushered him outside, towards the dark hallway of forensics. No one was in the lab. We rounded the corner just as Craig, Dawson, and Gregory emerged from interrogation, presumably heading towards the office to speak to Harris. Thomas relaxed his grip on my jacket as they disappeared, leaning back against the wall. His blue eyes were very pale in the dark.

"Today was the first time he's ever talked about Tweek," he said, his voice frail. "You know a little something about this shit, don't you? The skeletons that keep falling out of your closet?"

"Yes. God, yes." Despite the innocence of his question, the turn of phrase badly chilled me. "Tom, do you think he's dead?"

Thomas smiled weakly. "Who, Tweek? Nah. We still talk occasionally."

That made me pause. "You do?"

"Mmm. He calls me every once in a while, just to say hello. Craig doesn't know we keep in touch." He looked up at me, frightened and defensive. "I mean, it's better this way. Yeah? Shit, I know it is. It just has to be. Tweek can't face us, but he still wants us to be happy; I would have done him the same courtesy. Fuck, I _did_ try! The only reason Tweek was at the apartment that day instead of me was because we switched shifts. I thought they should spend the next Sunday alone to catch up. It should've…god, what's the use of that kind of thinking? Pointless. All of it."

I knew what Thomas had almost said: _it should've been me_. Without realizing what I was going to do, I reached out to hug him. He squeezed back fiercely, grateful and uninhibited. Despite the coolness of our interaction during the last few days, I could still feel the sixteen years of friendship between us. The job forced a distance, but we never forgot. Thomas was desperately solid in my arms.

"Thomas," Craig called from the hall, his voice hoarse. "You ready to go home?"

"Be there in a minute," said Thomas.

"Tom, if you ever need to talk to someone," I said, clenching him tighter. "The thing with Cartman-"

"Thank you, Kenny. I'm just glad it's over."

"You'll tell Craig?"

His expression blurred. "I don't know. No. Maybe."

"Someone needs to. I'll talk to him if you like, but he deserves to hear it from you." I hesitated, drawing back so I could meet his gaze. "Listen…what he said in there…"

"No, don't apologize to me," he said, looking away. "I'm not just Tweek's replacement. I mean…damn it, all three of us loved each other _so much_. There couldn't have been an order; romance was never in the cards. And…even knowing that now…I would give up anything to recover what we were. If we could just go back for a few minutes. A few seconds."

I couldn't imagine how damaging the town rumors had been. With all their potential, the three of them had cared too much to divide themselves. If only life allowed for this rare kind of beauty. If only justice could form itself around the _best_ of humanity…instead of the worst.

After giving me one final hug, Thomas backed out of the hallway to meet Craig. "I think I need to tell you something," he told him, staring him straight in the eyes.

Craig's response melted a part of me I hadn't realized was frozen: "I need to tell you _everything_."

They left together, their hands linked.

It wasn't how Stan and Kyle loved, I thought, standing there in the darkness. The bond wasn't singular; it was never realized. But such a mutual depth of untouched feeling demonstrated something just as real. This was how quiet lovers swore their hearts to each other, how the unanswered world sealed its promises: it fostered the type of devotion that said more in sacrifice than it did in attainment.

And, god, it said so much.

* * *

Gregory was standing in my office when I finally returned to grab my coat, his face tense and meditative as he stared out the window towards Christophe's still-active crime scene. The police tape was flickering in the wind. Gregory's eyes marked the ribbon's progress with a febrile intensity that made me hesitate in the doorway, then jump when he turned. For one disconcerting moment, I could see a shadow of Harrison Yates in him-the dying part, the part that seemed fifty years too old-then he softened apologetically into a smile, clearly exhausted, but as human as I'd ever seen him.

"How about that drink?" he said.

We ended up going to a bar a few miles away from the station-not the one frequented by Randy Marsh and my father, but a rustic new establishment that had been deliberately sited to tempt weary drivers off the main road. Despite Free Wing Wednesdays, its clientele was comprised mostly of travelers, the type of low-key drifters who rarely stuck around for more than a couple of pints. It was more private than any other business in South Park. We drank quickly and abundantly, grateful for our seclusion. I told him about Pip before segueing reluctantly into Thomas' story.

"Eric fucked with everyone who got in his way," I said. "Literally, more often than not. He's a disgrace to humanity as a race, let alone his uniform. Where the fuck was internal affairs?"

"I'm sure we'll find out in the investigation that follows," said Gregory.

"I can't even think about that right now. This is _huge_. Can you imagine the backlash?"

Gregory considered, then shook his head, dubious. "You want to know the truth? No. I can't. Too much of this is unprecedented. Individual offenses are dismissible, but what's happened here...an entire district of corrupt officers, murder and blackmail, a kidnap victim who finally fought back. Priests, for God's sake. Dirty laundry. I imagine Harris and Denver have temporarily agreed to a suppression order-both for their own reasons, of course-but I guarantee that there will be recoil, and we will all feel it."

"Do you think Kyle can get out of this?"

His eyes dimmed. "With his life, certainly, and it will be an unparalleled moment in United States history. Without ample jail time…I don't know. I just don't think so."

"Isn't there anything Token could do?" I asked, lowering my voice. "Hypothetically, I mean. Couldn't he claim self-defense?"

"Mr. Broflovski would've had to declare it sooner for any credibility. It's not as if he's, say, a police officer. He's a kidnap victim. I know that his circumstances are remarkable, but historically speaking, originators of these incongruities rarely get to see the changes they induce. It's only after they suffer that people see a need for revision." Gregory drained his glass. "That's perhaps the single thing that justice ensures, for better or worse: someone pays for it."

I couldn't reply. I was unsurprised, but very tired. I didn't want to digest the terror of that truth.

For nearly fifteen minutes, the silence was broken only by the jukebox in the corner, a dusty Wurlitzer that skipped on every third word. I was halfway through my third beer when Gregory finally lowered his own empty glass and frowned.

"Constable?" I asked.

"Listen, I don't mean to make this dramatic," he said. "I didn't ask you here for counseling."

"Good, because that would be like the blind leading the blind," I said, lifting my drink back to my lips. I wasn't getting much of a buzz. I'd decided to match Gregory in an attempt not to seem forward. The day had been painfully sobering. If I'd been alone, I likely would've started with bourbon and ended with my head in the toilet.

Gregory saw that I was almost finished and motioned for refills. The barkeep poured delicately, without noise. Gregory nodded at her in thanks and examined his new glass carefully, watching the foam dissipate, beginning to frown again.

"I used to go on an annual pub crawl with one of my friends," he said abruptly. "He always visited me for two days a year, in the evening. One night we'd spend intoxicated, the other sober." He paused. "The sober nights were stranger."

"Yeah? Why do you think that was?"

There was a faraway look in his eyes. "It all depends on the nature of the relationship, I suppose. Some people are only honest when they don't think they'll remember each other the next day."

"It's weird that you just saw this friend twice a year. Didn't you enjoy his company?"

He busied himself with his beer. Did I imagine the sudden color that rose in his cheeks? He spoke quickly, almost nervously. "Oh-yes, I did. Truly. But he was busy, and we were rarely in the same place at the same time. His job involved frequent travel, and…well, what reason would he have to visit Rutland? I think that setting aside these two nights each year was his way of saying that he was committed to maintaining our companionship…but only on a distant level. As if I would never be suitable for him, with any regularity."

I sensed his insecurity, and was surprised by how much it bothered me. "Well-that's his loss, isn't it? Any normal person would be happy to know you."

He looked up at me. "Do you think so?" he asked.

"Yeah, I do. I know _I_ am."

Gregory smiled. It was the first smile he'd ever meant solely for me; it seemed to warm the whole room. "I'm pleased," he said, after a long moment. "I'm so pleased that…I'm lightheaded."

I started to respond, pausing when he reached for his cup and missed by a good three inches. His cheeks had grown unmistakably rosier now. "Bad news, constable," I said, unable to stop the grin that spread across my face. "Under normal circumstances, I don't think I'm quite eloquent enough to induce dizziness with my compliments. Tell me, how often do you drink?"

"Coffee?"

"Uh…other things."

"Seldom." Five full seconds passed before Gregory thought to look offended. "Wait, detective. I am not _drunk_, I am _ruminating_."

I raised my eyebrows. "Yes, sir. What are you _ruminating _about?"

He thought about this for a while, long enough for the juke to stammer into the first verse of "Hey Jude." His expression was almost comedic in its concentration. "Well…several things," he said finally. "I worry that I've compromised our relationship somehow."

"How so?"

"By asking you here…and by being a shockingly poor conversationalist."

I patted him on the shoulder, making him sway a little. "You're not on the clock, so what's the problem?"

Gregory was now struggling to open a package of peanuts. His eyes lit up suddenly. "Oh, the problem," he declared, in a fit of inspiration, "is that the only difference between _acting _professional and _being_ professional is how people perceive you. When one's competency is dependent on how he conducts himself in front of others, what is his own motivation for self-improvement? A promotion? A handshake from a senior?"

"Let me get that," I said, reaching to help him with the peanuts.

"No, that's not proactive!" Gregory insisted, deflecting my hand. "I should do this by myself. I have the _means_ to do this by myself. At what point do I sit down and admit, hello, Gregory, perhaps no one ever taught you how to speak to people properly-or how to open a bag of peanuts?"

"You just grab the sides and-"

"It was a metaphor. Of course I know how to open a bag of peanuts!"

He did so a little too demonstratively, rupturing the plastic. Peanuts scattered across the tabletop. I burst out laughing. He cleared his throat and began to scoop them into a pile, his hands a little too clumsy to navigate them around our empty glasses.

"I don't even like peanuts," he said blankly.

"Eat them anyway to get something in your stomach, because I'm buying you another drink," I ordered, flagging the barkeep. With his guard down, Gregory was hilariously amenable, if unintentionally so. "Hey, do you want something…British? Vesper martini, shaken, not stirred?"

He grumbled and shuffled some bills out of his wallet. "Just for that, I'm getting you a Baileys."

"I like Baileys."

"You would," Gregory said, darkly accusing, making me laugh again.

"Oh god, careful. I think you dropped your inhibitions."

He actually glanced under the table to check before processing what I said.

God knew I was going to tease him in the morning for being such a lightweight, but right then, there was something too hopelessly charming about Constable St. Clair. I had seen forty different angles of this man in only a few days. The specialist, the bad cop, the good cop, the lonely diner…some unfathomable person who'd convinced himself that he was only worth seeing twice a year, despite his brilliance, his thousands of tiny facets. After the long work day, his hair was no longer swept back in that severe style. His bangs were parted on either side of his face in blond curls, framing impenetrable brown eyes. Even drunk, his gaze had focus.

"Listen, constable," I said, tentative, pausing halfway out of our booth with my money in hand.

"Yes." He hesitated. "And…could you call me 'Gregory?'"

I relaxed into a smile. It felt good and sane, unforced. "As long as I can be 'Kenny,'" I said. "And if you'd be willing to have another drink or six and 'ruminate' a little more together sometime, that would be fine, too."

"I supposed that's acceptable, since you have to tolerate me when I'm sober," he agreed. "What did you want to say…Kenny?"

I took a deep breath. "Well…you asked me a question about motivation," I said, after a beat of deliberation. "Your job is kind of built around reputation. I realize that. But you have certain obligations towards yourself, _from_ yourself. The best thing you could do is allow your own limitations. You're decent, you're professional, you're committed. I wish you'd understand that giving yourself time to breathe doesn't compromise any of that."

Gregory listened to me carefully as I spoke, his posture tense, but receptive. He looked back down at the table. When he finally glanced up again, I saw in his face some of the understated sensitivity that had incited him to comfort Craig in interrogation earlier that evening. The effect was soft and miraculous, like melting stone.

"I've always wondered if there was an inverse correlation between the strength of a person, and the pretenses he assumes in self-defense," he said quietly. "It's true in my case. I apologize for it. The kind of humanity that I perceive as weakness is the same capability that makes you commendable…thank you for realizing this before me. I look to you as my behavioral example."

The praise was overwhelming; I felt my face numbing with suffusion. "Oh, no-please don't do that. It would be a step backwards."

"You give yourself far too little credit," Gregory said. "I'd rather have been the soul of this investigation than the force."

"Goes both ways, constable," I said, and toasted him. "The heart's a muscle, too."

* * *

I woke up the next morning with renewed vigor. It was cloudy outside, and the first substantial snow of the season had blanketed the streets in ice, dangerous and beautiful. Something about seeing the world that way felt like a miracle. It was true cleanliness, and my head was clear. I felt empowered.

I dressed quickly and drove to the station, not noticing the strange silence until I was halfway to the counter. I frowned, looking around. No one was answering the ringing phones. Park County had the floor, their faces disinterested and unfamiliar. Gregory was the only person I recognized, standing at the edge of the counter with a notepad in hand and his back turned towards me, and I drew in a breath to call to him. My mouth was just forming around the first syllable when Murphy grabbed the front of my shirt, yanked me into his dark office, and snapped the door shut.

"What the hell?" I demanded, startled. I stopped short. Dawson and Johnson were standing to Murphy's right, looking equally grim. Beyond them, silhouetted against the blinded windows, Harris sat on the desk with the television remote in his hand. The monitor in the corner was set on a blue screen.

"Picked up the hospital surveillance," Harris said.

He pressed the play button. The display jumped to life at a high angle in the corner of a hallway, flickering in black and white. Four figures stood in the hallway. Harris tapped the one in the center, standing near the tall man in the dark tie.

"This is you," he said shortly. "The guy nearby is Sergeant Cartman. Dawson's across from you and Marsh is to your left. In a second, you will all disperse, and Cartman will continue on to Christophe's room."

He fast-forwarded. I watched us scatter, nurses moving by in the foreground, a doctor idling for a few minutes in front of the TV before continuing on his rounds. Harris hit 'play' again just as someone entered the frame from the opposite hall. I frowned, leaning forward. A man wearing bright white shoes and a dark jacket, either brown or gray, his hood drawn up over his hair and face. There was something familiar about his gait. Harris had paused while he was in mid-step.

"This might actually be Mr. Broflovski," Harris said. "That improvised alibi he gave you, remember? It may not have been so impromptu after all."

I couldn't understand. "Wait, he-what the fuck?"

"Well, we can't confirm this until we find an eyewitness. Hell's Pass has got ancient cameras; the security system hasn't been updated in god knows how many years. This is the best picture we can get. We saw Broflovski's shoes at the crime scene, but white Keds won't hold up in court."

"I don't get it," I said faintly.

Harris pursed his lips and stood up slowly to face me, shifting his balance from one foot to the other, trying to find a place to start. "Here's the thing," he said finally, light playing off his shoulders as moved. "None of us ever believed that Broflovski killed Cartman. The mechanics are wrong, for one. He's about five inches too short to have angled a knife into Cartman's neck along the wound's course, unless he was standing on something. Second-his hands are weak. You've seen how small they are, right? It's because he's been in cuffs for the better part of ten years. I mean, you can explain away both of these things. Maybe he was kneeling on the bed when he first attacked Cartman. Maybe the adrenaline fueled this confrontation, gave him a little extra punch. But all this is only a roundabout way of saying that his being the murderer is extremely implausible. Ken…do you _really_ think he killed him?"

"I-of course I do. I mean-what, knowing him personally?" I was stammering. "No, I didn't believe that he was _capable_ of murder, but his circumstances were serious, and I never had a reason _not_ to think he was guilty! I reviewed all the files, the forensics! There was no sign of-"

"We kept this information from you," Dawson admitted. "We couldn't let you allay Broflovski; we needed him tense. We needed you on your toes, too."

"So who killed Eric, if you don't think Kyle did it?"

Silently, Harris pressed the play button again, this time at regular speed. The man in the Keds continued down the hall and disappeared. I watched the timer tick in the corner. Thirty seconds had passed before Eric left, walking fast, opting for the back exit instead of the front doors. Then Keds. But then someone else emerged. A tall man with blond hair and smartly ironed slacks. I had seen the same black gloves at the funeral, the same tie-there was no badge around his neck, but that aggressive stride was iconic and recognizable enough even on the blurred security tape.

My vision doubled briefly. "Oh my god."

"This is a very serious allegation," Harris said quietly. "We're not making any formal accusations. But Gregory was at the hospital the night before he was officially assigned to the case, and he may well have been the last person Eric Cartman spoke to before he was killed."

I had to sit down. Johnson moved to help me find a chair. Everything around me felt very dim and surreal.

"I maintain that the difference between working city and countryside is the officer's knowledge of his people," said Harris. "Everyone knows everyone here. You simply can't have a perfectly dispassionate investigation. I'm alarmed because I hadn't realized the _extent_ of the constable's attachment to South Park, as I had yours-I still don't know the specifics, and he obviously hasn't told me. Do you have any idea what his connection is to any of these people? Who were his friends?"

"I don't know," I said, not even feeling the words as they left my mouth.

"Not even a hunch?"

"I was only in class with him for a few days. We only knew each other by reputation."

Murphy threw his arms up. "Great. We've got a transfer who's working from the inside, but we don't even know who he's pulling for. Is he trying to have Broflovski indicted, or Cartman, or what?"

It was the only answer I had. "He wants Kyle to walk."

"Considering Broflovski's apparent innocence, I suppose that much is okay," said Harris. "Gregory's not-_framing_ him. But he _is_ using him as a scapegoat to buy himself time, so we can't assume that none of his intentions are malicious."

"You really think Gregory killed Cartman," I said. "You actually _believe_ this."

Everyone stopped. I didn't know how to decipher the looks they exchanged. No one smiled. Then Harris roughly hit the eject button on the VCR, popping the tape, the room flooding again with that painful blue light.

"Here's what we know," he said. "We've only held Broflovski for the lack of evidence in his _favor_. He never confessed. There was blood on his hands, possibly because he took a pulse from the body, since not even the neighbor actually saw him with the knife. I don't know if he realizes we think he's innocent. He might be catching on, given the fact that we've all been granting him special treatment since his arrival-my fault for not coordinating that. The marks on Cartman's body, though-the stomach, the face, the throat. None of these individual wounds were fatal. The attacker didn't kill him outright: he watched Cartman bleed out."

Would Kyle do that? After ten years, I certainly would have-but what of the narrow time frame? I suddenly remembered the arrest with Murphy, breaking in through the front door, how I'd looked down to see Kyle's normally arranged shoes conspicuously left in the center of the rug. As if he'd kicked them off running. As if the scene was just as fresh to him as it had been to us, and he'd still been reeling in shock when Murphy and I found him. The time of death would count for very little if Eric's passing and Kyle's arrival had been a matter of seconds instead of minutes. Decomposition couldn't be tallied that precisely. The room had been too cold from the rain.

Wait-the _rain_? Why had I noted the weather when I had been inside?

It hit me. The first thing I had seen there _hadn't_ been Kyle.

"The curtains," I said. "The curtains were moving. I felt a breeze…that window was _open_."

"Just wide enough for someone to hop out and get away," agreed Dawson. "Yes, we noticed that, too."

"We have only one piece of tangible evidence," said Harris. "We found it in Broflovski's cell this morning."

He handed me a note, already swathed in a plastic evidence bag. It was a message written in blue ink in someone's sloppy hand: _Don't give them anything. Keep it up a little longer; it's almost taken care of_.

"Properly cryptic and revealing at the same time, yes?" said Murphy.

Harris smiled without humor. "Mr. Broflovski isn't in the clear, Ken. See, he might have planned this with the constable. They were both in Christophe's hospital room that night. The only piece we're missing is Gregory's motive."

I couldn't think of anything that linked the three of them, or even Gregory and Christophe. I mutely shook my head.

"We're reinstating your arrest privileges," Harris said, standing up. "I'm putting the constable on heavily-monitored desk duty. He doesn't know what we've found, and you are absolutely not to tell him. You are still not the primary. You're working under me, and we need a confession or a motive. I gave you the four-day ultimatum to keep you moving, but now we've just got to finish this before Gregory catches on. Can you handle this?"

Working against my mentor and my good friend the kidnap victim. Why would there be a problem?

"_Ken_," Harris said loudly.

"Yes," I said, snapping to attention. "Yes-I can handle it."

None of them were convinced.

"Kenny," Harris said again, this time gently.

"Seriously, I'll be fine in a minute. Just-shit, I'm…can anyone give me something I can smoke?" My hands were shaking. For the first time since eleventh grade, I wanted a cigarette.

Dawson reached into his coat and tapped a Newport out of the pack. Menthol was better than nothing. He lit it right there in Murphy's office and I put it between my lips, zipping up my coat again so I could go outside. Harris and the others were throwing each other unreadable glances again. I didn't stop to interpret them. Gregory called out to me as I shoved through the front doors, but I kept walking, past the crime scene to the bench on the other side of the street. The cold was sharp and bracing. I leaned against the chain-link fence and took a deep breath, feeling the winter like a weight in my lungs. I wonder if I could get it heavy enough to crush me.

I smoked the minty menthol in slow drags. In ten minutes, I had lost a good friend and the sense of purpose I'd had when I first woke up. I couldn't believe Gregory was capable of murder, not like that-the man never even appeared in public without ironed clothes; something as messy as Eric's death was simply not possible for him.

My own reasoning made me scoff. That was the best I could come up with? Gregory was too _tidy_?

We had become closer in the last few days, but I remembered my initial impression of distrust. I had promised myself not to rely on him until I knew what he was hiding from me. Faced with the footage of Gregory near Christophe's room in the hospital, I had to accept the very real possibility that he had never actually opened up to me in the first place-Gregory _calculated_, he used people as his pawns, and perhaps our growing friendship was just another fabrication in his flimsy cover-up. The idea hurt like hell. This was a man that I had learned to respect. No matter how many drinks we'd shared, he had been pointing me in the wrong direction while he tried to clean the blood from his hands.

I finished the cigarette and sighed, staring around the parking lot. There was a gorgeous black Lexus with tinted windows sitting around the side of the station. I stared at it for a long time, wondering which poor bastard in South Park had sold his house to buy it. I didn't recognize the plates.

"Admiring my ride?" someone said behind me.

I jumped and started to turn around. "What-"

"Quiet. Eyes forward."

It took me a moment to place the new visitor: it was Token. He'd dropped all his fussy lawyer pretensions, and the voice that issued surreptitiously from the corner of his mouth was informal, familiar, and clearly under great strain. I sat back against the fence, trying to concentrate on the sky. I wanted badly to face him. "What are you doing here?" I asked.

There was a click as he flicked a lighter and lit up a cigarette of his own, feigning distraction. "I had to talk to Kyle about a few things," he said. "Had to talk to you, too."

"About what?"

"Your case. Gregory. You know, all the shit that would get us both in a hell of a lot of trouble if anyone saw us talking. Reel it in, Ken, I feel you leaning towards me."

I hadn't realized I was drawing closer. I straightened up quickly, feeling stupid. "Fucking suck at this cloak-and-dagger bullshit," I said.

Token chuckled around his cigarette. "Oh, that's good. Means you haven't been disingenuous enough to need to hone your skills." There was a long silence as he smoked. It smelled way better than my menthol. I could almost make out his reflection in the ice on the sidewalk-a slim, stylish outline, the curves of his suit jacket crisp and unassuming. His back was to me, face visible in profile. He was wearing dark sunglasses despite the overcast weather, and his lips barely moved as he spoke.

"How's it going in there? Is it starting to look less like Kyle and more like someone from the inside?"

"Just maybe," I said, shutting my eyes. "How is it that everyone knew what was going on except me?"

"It's because you're too close to see the full picture. Nothing makes sense out of context. You need to learn to take a few steps back."

"Well, I didn't have a reason to until today."

He sighed. His breath dispersed in a faint cloud. "You're way behind. That's why I'm here; to catch you up. Call it common courtesy." He glanced around, then leaned back again, speaking even more quietly. "Listen-you weren't around when the class formed La Resistance in elementary school. That means you're the only person in our age group who doesn't know that Gregory and Christophe were friends."

I sat up too fast and rattled the chain-links. "_What_?"

"Kenny, shut up! Jesus!"

"They were _friends_?"

"Well, they knew each other intimately. I don't know if that makes them friends, but they were at least business partners. That business being _covert operations_. I'd forgotten you'd never met Christophe until I dropped a hint in interrogation, and you didn't pick up on it. That prick Gregory called me out. I couldn't pursue it without incriminating myself."

"Shit, you've done nothing wrong," I said. "Taking Kyle's case upon Clyde's request? There's nothing wrong with that."

Token paused for a long moment. "So you know about Clyde?"

"Heard it through the grapevine, yeah. Don't worry about him-no charges."

After several intense days of communication, Token finally allowed himself a sliver of vulnerability. "I was so pissed when he told me he was getting married," he confessed in a low voice. "'Pay now, play later.' That was always my philosophy. But he's my best friend because he's his own person, a _good_ person, and I never wanted him to go through what happened to Millie. When he called me up and said Kyle had been arrested, I was relieved that I finally had a chance to redeem myself. So many thousands of dollars went towards law school instead of Clyde's family, you know-I wanted to show him that it had paid off, even if he didn't reap the benefits directly."

"You know he never expected that of you," I said. "Maybe I don't agree with what he did, and maybe he got pretty fucking lucky, but he took care of it. He just paid for it in knowledge and suffering, not in time. You're right to say he's a good man. I'd be proud to call him my best friend."

"Who do you call your best friend now?" Token asked.

That made me stop. I hadn't thought about it. My own bitterness surprised me. "Stan, I guess."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Kyle's in the picture again. I can't even get near them. What can I say? Maybe this is just the way it's meant to be; my track record isn't that great. I once shared BFF vows with Eric fucking Cartman. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for that."

There was a hiss as Token tossed his cigarette into a puddle of melted ice, making it ripple. "Here's the thing," he said. "Cartman's always been the outlier. If sexually abusing your mutual friend for ten years doesn't break the contract, I don't know what the hell does."

I felt a wan smile tug at my lips. "When you put it that way…"

"But you're going about this wrong. Stan's importance to you is not relative to his feelings for someone else. You took this case for him, didn't you? At least more for him than yourself, or even Kyle. Look at all the personal sacrifices that people have made in the last few days. Flying across the country. Taking new jobs. Committing _murder_. You can't arrange these things by scope; that just diminishes them, and you."

My classmates, I thought, closing my eyes. These boys-these _men_. If our reunion had been under better circumstances, it would've been beautiful. But could we have come together this way for joy? For beauty? Not all of us had managed to make it to Clyde's wedding or the grand opening of the Wash-'n-Wear, nor Pip's first sermon, my graduation. The last time we'd assembled in full was during high school, for Jimmy Vulmer's funeral. I didn't want to believe that crises fashioned our only potential for teamwork…but it was too clear that tragedy got us together the fastest.

"We're a swell group of angst-mongers," said Token, as if reading my thoughts. "Know what, though? The time has come to stop admiring that. It hurts me to say this, it really does-but you're a _professional_, Kenny, and you must've seen the huge gaps between who we are and who we pretend to be. So far, you've managed to be consistent. But what kind of favors is that doing everyone?"

"It's doing _me_ a favor," I snapped.

"Well, of course it is. It's safe, it's easy, and it gets you stepped on."

I started to argue with that, but the memory of Gregory stopped me. He had played me like he played Harris, but that wasn't as personal-they hadn't been on a first name basis. Yes, I'd been stepped on. Baring my soul to the world meant that everyone could see right through me to the parts that were still raw and bleeding. Was it worth it, to wear my heart on my sleeve at the risk of its being torn off? At the end of the day, maybe "at least he was consistent" wouldn't look so great on my headstone.

"Sorry, Kenny," said Token softly, sensing my grief. "I didn't mean to be so harsh."

He was reaching out between the chain links, a subtle gesture of comfort, not grand enough to register on film. His hand was inches from my shoulder. I could lean into that touch, feel him solid and soothing behind me. But Gregory was not going to hurt me without my learning from it. He had taught me at least one good thing.

_Choose anger_.

I jerked away from Token and stood up, making the fence tremble with the force of the motion. Token jumped a little, startled.

"Ken, what the hell-?"

"I'm going to do my job," I said shortly. "I'm going to cut the bullshit and do my job."

Token grabbed my sleeve, tugging me around. I could finally face him. I was immediately confronted by my own reflection in his aviators, resolve silvered in the tinted glass, and what I saw both frightened and empowered me: I was ready. I was ready to hear the truth.

"Hey, I can't question Kyle without his lawyer present," I said. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

"Not if you need me."

"I need you," I said.

Token lifted his glasses. His eyes were dark. "I've waited my whole life to hear those words," he said, his voice rich with sarcasm. Then he smiled grimly and dropped the shades back over his face. "Lead on, detective."

* * *

I opened the door to let Token into the holding cell a few steps before me, heard Kyle stand up in a hurry. "Token, did you talk to him?" Kyle said. "He didn't visit me this morning. I think something's wrong."

"You've got that right," I said. "Are you talking about Gregory?"

"Uh-Kenny?" Kyle had flinched, guilty as sin. Even in the face of his unease, I refused to let my expression slip. This wasn't Kyle from school, I told myself; I didn't know him, he was just another victim who'd swept crucial information under the rug. I stared at his scars instead. In scars, he was someone I'd never even met.

"I need you to tell me what happened," I said.

"But I've already told you," Kyle said. "I've told you at least a dozen times."

"Try it again, this time truthfully."

He glanced at Token, begging for answers. Token looked on with quiet sympathy, but offered him no respite. Kyle sank back onto his cot, repeating the story without adornment, hands unconsciously rubbing the bruises on his wrists.

"Okay. Cartman told me what happened to Christophe late in the evening. He took me to the hospital to see him. I waited in the car for a while before going in, so we wouldn't be seen walking together. Chris was already asleep by the time I got into his room-I gave Cartman time to go to the car by himself, then I went back to the parking lot and we drove home. Harris was waiting outside the house, so Cartman stopped a block away and made me walk to meet him. Harris took me to the station, where I fed Stan and Dawson bullshit until eleven, and then Murphy took me home and I found Cartman lying on the carpet with his throat slashed open. Happy?"

"Not quite," I said. This was the first time I had heard Kyle deliver his alibi verbally. Dawson had taken his first and second statements, and I'd read the records, but hearing it aloud was something very different-he'd repeated it almost verbatim. As would anyone working off a script. "Who did you see in the hospital that night?"

"I saw Stan and Dawson exiting, and I almost bumped into you in the hallway when you were talking to Cartman. I waited for you to leave."

The video evidence supported that much. "No one else."

"And Christophe, obviously."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

I flipped open my notepad and wrote down the information. I could've kept the notes in my head, but the memos made Kyle nervous. His breathing was a little shallower as he stood back up and approached the bars, looking so small in his orange jumpsuit.

"What's this about, Kenny?" he pleaded.

"Mr. Broflovski," I continued, ignoring the shock that bloomed in his eyes at this formality, "tell me more about finding Cartman in your bedroom."

Kyle wasn't looking to Token for comfort anymore. He was staring at me as if I'd just stabbed him myself, reevaluating, flooded with disbelief at my betrayal. "_Detective McCormick_, you already have my fucking statement. I walked into the house and saw him lying there, dead. I flipped him over and checked his pulse, but he was already getting cold. The knife was in the carpet. I stood by it and cried until I heard sirens, and then _you_ came in and arrested me."

Now I was writing just so I wouldn't have to look him in the eyes.

"Fuck you," Kyle said. His voice broke. "_Fuck you, _Kenny! You faked this whole thing! I thought you were still my friend!"

_Don't digest it. Don't make it real_. "You really didn't do it," I summarized.

"I really didn't do it," Kyle said. "You just threw away our friendship for something I already told you. You son of a bitch!"

Despite how strategic Token's interjection had seemed in interrogation, it had been true. That meant that Token had always known what I'd had the gall to doubt: Kyle had not committed the murder. Not even after Cartman had assaulted him for years, broken him down until he would stay alone in a prison without locks. His proclaimed innocence wasn't merely a defensive move, it was a fact. Nothing had changed with my involvement-it was arrogant to assume that the South Park police could have encouraged a turnaround after so long. Someone else had set off the spark. Someone who had been on the outside-at least back then.

"So what did you and Gregory St. Clair talk about in Christophe's hospital room?" I asked casually.

Kyle froze. It was unmistakable. The tone of the questioning changed immediately, offering me a moment to breathe. Kyle had no room to be righteous while he was in retreat.

"How…?"

"The hospital surveillance. You, Cartman, and Gregory intersected for a full minute before Cartman took off like someone had lit a fire under his ass. What were you three talking about?"

Kyle's lips were trembling. He pursed them together to still them, but his hands continued to shake, and it took all of my self-control not to clasp them in my own. "You don't understand," he whispered. "I had to go there. He was going to kill him."

Token and I both stood up straighter at that one. "Who?" Token demanded, not ashamed to be in the dark. "Gregory was going to kill Cartman?"

"No! God. It was _Cartman_. Cartman was going to kill _Christophe_."

Right. Eric had happily mowed Christophe down in front of a police station. No way he would've let that slide. Chris was never supposed to survive the hit-and-run, but when he did, Eric decided to make sure he would never get well enough to talk. What had he told us that night? He was from Christophe's insurance company? Bullshit. He had been there to finish what he had started, and Kyle was there to stop him. Lucky, because we hadn't known then what he was planning.

"Go on," I said.

"I didn't realize what he was doing at the hospital until I saw Stan and Dawson leave. Then I ran to his room. Cartman was looking for a syringe to inject an air bubble into Christophe's IV." Kyle sagged against the bars, lowering his voice. "Cartman-he hit me hard. I think I fell down. When I opened my eyes, Gregory had the syringe in his hand, and Cartman was backing up against the wall."

Beside me, the corners of Token's mouth curled up in a small, wicked smile. Even if Gregory was a murderer, this was a matter of degree, and I too felt a trickle of approval at the idea of Eric finally having to face someone he couldn't kick while he was down. Gregory could not be bullied. But with sudden light on this new visual, I was not struck by Cartman's apprehension, or Gregory's power, or even Kyle's disbelief at his first rescue in ten years. Above everything, I could imagine the grim satisfaction in Christophe's eyes. Chris had been caged motionless in his own broken body, but never without the possibility of retribution. Not with the company he kept. Not with a friend like Gregory.

"Cartman left," said Kyle, barely audible. "Gregory helped me up and asked me where I wanted to go. I said Yes Foods Grocery. I didn't think Cartman would be stupid enough to return home, but I didn't know for sure-we passed by the house, though, and sure enough, I saw Harris in his squad car. Same thing I said before, except it was Gregory who let me out a block away."

"He just kicked you out onto the street?" I said.

"It wasn't like that. He knew I'd be safer with the police than I would with him. He said he would watch the house and stop me if I tried to go in when Cartman was home, but that he had no legal authority over any of us yet-tomorrow, he promised. Just one more day."

That's right-Harris had been in the process of integrating him into our system the night of Cartman's murder. That meant that he'd put in for transfer several weeks ago, _before_ Christophe had come to see us, but not before Kyle's "fall down the stairs." No wonder Token had hinted towards Gregory's involvement in interrogation. During the seven-day delay between Kyle's accident and Christophe's report, Chris had phoned his own connection to the law-the Chief Constable of Rutland, no killable ties to South Park-and then all they had to wait for was Gregory's paperwork to go through. They had been looking for _lawful_ vengeance. Companionship aside, they were actually playing fair.

But then something had changed. Christophe was attacked, and maybe Gregory was no longer satisfied with a jail sentence after seeing him in traction, jaws wired shut. Heartrending as it was, did that make any sense against their patient record of waiting and planning?

Did they really have a relationship worth committing murder over?

"Tell me how Gregory and Christophe knew each other," I said.

Kyle stared at me, wary of the implications behind this question. "They were childhood friends. I don't know how they met."

"Childhood friends? That's all Christophe told you about Gregory?"

"If you're asking about how _intense_ their relationship is, I have no more of an idea than you do. Chris rarely wrote to me about anyone. He told me once that he knew someone in law enforcement, and I assume that it was Gregory, because he's the one here now. They were collaborators in La Resistance. Partners. Besides that, I've never heard anything about their interaction. I don't know that Chris even had any other friends. There was a cousin, Chloe, and some guy he went barhopping with twice a year."

Wait. "Barhopping?" I repeated.

"Yeah, it was one of very few things Chris ever asked me about. I remember it because it-well, it wasn't like Chris at all; he never worried about people. But he wanted to know what it meant that he and this friend of his were only comfortable when they were…you know."

"No, I don't know," I said.

Kyle blushed. "Having drunken sex," he said, defiant.

My eyebrows shot up. Gregory and Christophe-involved in a _physical_ relationship. What they lacked in frequency they made up for in intensity, if Christophe's uncharacteristic preoccupation with their meetings had anything to do with it. Gregory had certainly omitted that detail last night while we were drinking-or had he? The color in his face that I'd taken for the effects of the alcohol…the undeniable sensitivity of the discussion. The way his eyes had dimmed with longing.

I didn't know why I hadn't guessed it before. Simple business partners didn't fly across oceans for defense, and they definitely didn't put their lives on each other's shoulders so blindly. A friend was worth fighting for. That was noble enough. But a lover was worth _killing_ for.

I had Gregory's motive.

"This is too good," said Token dryly, reading my expression. "It explains so much. I knew that straight men didn't iron their shirt sleeves like that every morning."

"What are you talking about?" Kyle demanded.

"Gregory said something to you before you spoke to Stan, didn't he?" I said. This was the trump card I needed. "The day after your arrest, by the holding cells, he wasn't just reviewing your Mirandas. Tell me what he said."

Kyle closed his eyes. His strength had finally fled him. "Please, Kenny, please don't make me do this to him," he whispered. "He was the only one who actually tried to help me."

"I could have him tell me, instead," I said. "While I _arrest_ him."

What was behind Kyle now was pure grief. Without anyone to look to for comfort, he dropped his gaze to his own hands and rubbed circles around his wrists, too used to shackles. "Gregory…he…told me not to worry. He said that he was going to take care of it. And something in his face told me to trust him."

We had all been impressed by Kyle's calmness, but he had never even digested his danger, had he? He'd never had a reason to. Gregory had diffused the situation with a few neat words.

Typical.

"Hey, _Detective McCormick_," said Kyle suddenly, sharp enough to cut. "Why don't you give _me_ a fucking clue?"

I looked at Kyle. He hated me now, and he was justified in that hatred. This was what professionals did: they stepped on people. They used up them up. Harris had tried to warn me the night he assigned me the case, tried to hint that it hadn't been benevolence on his part-only now, thinking about the body count behind me, was I finally able to see what it had cost me to uphold the law. But this was what I had now. I had once believed in it enough to make a pledge to it. It carried no value if even I couldn't believe in it long enough to make it right.

"Kyle, it's almost over," I said quietly. "If things go right, you'll be out of here in an hour. I would never abandon you. _Ever_."

I didn't even wait to see his reaction. I drove the door open hard enough to strike the wall, swinging it shut so Token couldn't catch it on the rebound. No more speaking to friends. No more allowing myself that comfort. Harris had restored my arrest privileges, and by now I was an old pro at snapping the cuffs and throwing away the keys.

* * *

Gregory was standing outside when I left the holding cells, his dark coat rustling in the gentle wind. He was staring at Christophe's crime scene again. My knowledge of his situation gave his scrutiny a darker meaning-his expression was angry, determined, so transparent that I didn't know how I had missed it before. I felt the ache of his betrayal in sick waves, but I approached him anyway, careful to retain a cold distance. He turned to me, started to speak, then stopped. I could see him measuring the six good feet between us. More of his calculations.

"Good morning," he said at last. "Are you okay?"

I shrugged. "As well as can be expected. Feeling pretty foolish right now, but I guess you had Kyle fooled, too. So at least I was in good company."

He'd been scribbling away in that damn notepad of his. He paused with the pen poised in mid-stroke. What was he doing? Forging signatures? Scripting Kyle's courtroom scene? His face gave nothing away but mild uncertainty. "I don't know what you mean," he said. "Is this about my letting Mr. Marsh visit Mr. Broflovski? I just assumed you would approve. I apologize."

"Cut the fucking act," I said.

Now there was something in his eyes. They flashed dangerously. "Pardon me?"

"I should never have trusted you," I told him, emboldened by my fury. I clenched my hands in my pockets to keep myself from lashing out. "God-I was so _stupid_. I knew there was something wrong the second you shook my hand. No wonder you needed me on this case! I was the only officer stupid enough to ignore my instincts in lieu of a phony friendship."

"_Phony friendship_," Gregory repeated, his mouth twisting. "This is news to me. I thank you again for your exemplary skills of perception."

"Want to know what else I've found out?"

"Pray tell."

I dared to step forward. He did not match the gesture with any movement of his own, a very strange sign. It meant he was either very confident or very confused. "You and Christophe were friends," I said. "Except for me, everyone knew it-Token, Stan, Kyle, even Eric. That's fine, because that knowledge itself wasn't damning. Harris _likes_ connections. You were just another link in the South Park network. What he didn't know was how _serious_ your adult relationship with Christophe became during those lonely nights in Rutland."

Gregory's cheeks reddened. It took him a long moment to find his voice. "I told you that in confidence! How dare you use it against me! That's what last night was, wasn't it? I was only research?"

I laughed out loud. "You're kidding, right? That's all I've ever been to you!"

"Not last night, you weren't. Nor on the phone, or at Mr. Cartman's funeral, or whenever we exchanged more than two words after our drive home from the Denver headquarters."

"Really, just stop," I said, losing my temper. "Fucking stop."

"I stopped a long time ago, when I decided I could trust you," he said.

"Oh, and when was that?"

"When I realized you were a better person than me. There. What else would you like to hear?"

The compliment was such an unwarranted strategy that I could conceive of no way to combat it. I tightened my lips and swallowed. He just stared at me with his usual affected steadiness, the hard line of his mouth giving lie to the sudden slump of misery in his shoulders.

"Right. This is a problem with me, I realize that. Christophe is one of very few people who will speak to me on a semi-regular basis. Certainly he's the only person I can get close enough to touch. I promise I would have explained our relationship if I thought we actually _had_ one-but a tryst a year is not a romance. I thought…misguidedly…that I'd be demonstrating something to him by taking Mr. Broflovski's case. Of course, I can throw all of that out, now. I was too obvious when I went to visit him in the hospital and saw Cartman leaning over him with a syringe. This is why I hate sentiment: you put everything on the table for someone else to see, you _eviscerate_ yourself, and they're never interested in any of it. It's just…a lot of blood for nothing."

I'd seen him upset before, but never like this. Never on a personal level. He wouldn't even look at me; it was all I could do not to fling my arms around him and tell him how deeply I related. For the second time in the last week, I had to force myself not to embrace a murderer. I didn't know why I was so drawn to this type of damage.

"I bled for you, too," I said finally. "Maybe that much evens out."

Gregory looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. I knew he believed me without actually trusting the philosophy. This was not a fair world.

"But it doesn't mean that you can get away with what you did," I said.

Harris and Dawson were talking inside the station, in earshot for my verbal go-ahead. I could see them from my angle, but Gregory couldn't. He looked at Cartman's tire treads on the pavement. A lot of the photo evidence markers had blown over or been obscured by the snow: one good storm and the final evidence of Christophe's near-death experience would be gone. But the weather couldn't erase the paperwork or Christophe's scars…or Gregory's, for that matter. He let out a soft breath.

"I'm sorry I withheld information about Chris," he said.

"It's okay," I said shortly.

"Then why are you still angry with me?"

My annoyance returned. "Jesus, Gregory! Are you really that secure in your moral beliefs? I mean, we all know who he was and what he did, but even Kyle didn't lose enough heart to actually kill him! You don't think murder merits an apology? Even a small one?"

Gregory's forehead creased. "This is about Cartman?"

"Yes! Yes, it's about Cartman! Who else?"

"Chris," Gregory said, softly.

"Damn it, not everything is about _Christophe_!" I reached forward and snatched the notepad out of his hands. I was bare inches away from him now. "You murdered Cartman, and you have to answer to it. Isn't that what you told me? 'Justice ensures that someone pays for it.' Well, pay up, constable. You're not above the law; no one is. Not even a person who writes his own lie-filled book about it."

Gregory looked at me for a long time before his eyes widened with disbelief. "Wait," he said. "_Wait_."

"I'm done waiting," I said.

"So _that's_ what you were talking about? You-no. Harris had his suspicions, but you weren't supposed to know…Ken. Oh, Ken." His voice cracked a little on my name. "'No one is above the law.' You are going to be very sorry you said that."

I shoved him a little. "Is that a threat?" I demanded, shaking the notepad at him for emphasis.

Then I stopped short.

My gaze had fallen on the sheets of paper. Gregory's cluttered script marched across the page in uneven lines, a rough draft of some sort of letter, maybe. I saw a capital K. The sharp curve of a G. I had never seen his writing before. It was as unfamiliar and distinctive as the way he spoke and dressed and acted-there was no way I could ever mistake it for something else.

My other hand was still in my jacket pocket. It closed around an old memo.

I couldn't move.

"Ken, I'm sorry," Gregory said, struggling hard to speak. "You have no idea how sorry I am. It only just occurred to me-that look on your face-"

That was bad, that I was giving so much away with my expression, but I couldn't will myself back into professionalism this time. Never again. I was through with this shift, this town, this horrible tired life. I felt myself shaking and knew my hands weren't stable enough even to wipe my eyes. Tears spilled down my cheeks, burning hot against the winter chill. Gregory tugged off his black gloves and swiped the moisture firmly off my face with his thumbs. He held on, his grip too tight. At least I knew that this was hurting him, too.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said quietly. "You could get in your car now. Drive away from here and never come back."

I tried to laugh and only choked. "And then who would take care of it?"

"This is different. No one would—no one _needs_ to-"

"Then it's all worthless. All of it. Everything we've been through. Everything Kyle's been through. This entire investigation, Eric's death, all the things that he will never have to pay for…it was all for _nothing_!"

"Why?" Gregory demanded. "Because it's a type of justice that didn't go through a court?"

I pushed his hands away from me and grabbed his shoulders. "Don't you _see_, Gregory? Eric won! He won the second he put on that uniform! He made sure there was no way for anyone to speak against him even after his death! Yes, there will be rumors, and yes, people will ask questions-but what is our _case_? What we have amounts to nothing but he-said-she-said bullshit! Without someone else on the stand, _Kyle is a murderer_."

"But he loses no credibility as a witness," said Gregory.

"Are you kidding? Of course he does! For every one of his scars, _Sergeant Cartman_ has a medal of commendation. For every Craig, there's a _cop_. Token can't take on a full precinct! No one will even hear it! And do you know why?"

Gregory merely swallowed hard.

"_This_," I said. I took out my badge and shook it hard in front of him. "_This_ fucking piece of metal that says _nothing_ about a person's morals. You said it yourself: Kyle's not a police officer. He has the weight of testimony, but not of status. The only person who could take Eric on is someone on the right side of the law-the _real_ right side-and Eric kept it all within South Park because he _knew_ Harris and I could never throw one of our own to the dogs."

"Therein lies your only alternative," said Gregory.

"I see," I said. "_Finally_, I see."

I shoved my badge at him. He grabbed for it on pure reflex, barely catching it. I yanked my cuffs free from their pouch and dropped them into his arms, following with my flashlight, my notepad, and all of my spare magazines. I checked the safeties on my gun before setting it on the top of the pile. I unknotted my tie, folded it, and handed it over. Gregory merely watched this whole process in silent shock, unable even to find the words to argue.

"This is where I draw the line," I said. "You can pick this up if you like, tell Harris what we know. But I'm not going to be the person to do it."

"You're the only one who _should_," said Gregory.

"No. This is what I _should_ do. This is what I should've done a long time ago."

And so I did the bravest and most cowardly thing of my life. I did the only thing I could do. I turned on heel, Eric's laughter echoing in my mind, and walked away.

* * *

I dropped off the keys to the squad car to take my own, a three-year-old red Volvo that had been sitting in the parking lot since I took the case. I scraped off just enough ice to see through the front and back windows before tearing out of there, wondering how I was going to respond when Harris called me up and demanded to know where I was going. _Crazy_, I decided finally. And that was a good enough descriptor for the last week of my life. Crazy, tired, _over_. I drove to the edge of the town with my eyes on the safety rails, and if there were suicidal thoughts in my mind, they were purely speculative: it wasn't about flinging my car off the side of a mountain. It was about that action being a welcome alternative to waking up in the morning and facing myself.

Kyle would understand. Kyle, who had really felt this dilemma, and triumphed over it.

But I wasn't Kyle. No one was.

I urged the car up the incline. My graduation tassel swayed on the rearview mirror. Before Eric and Kyle reappeared in my life, I'd been at peace with our falling out…as vivid as my childhood memories were, we hadn't been friends for nearly ten years, and the mementos of our shared experiences evoked that same quiet nostalgia. It was a default ending, a neutral ending. Not happy, but not upsetting, either. I never underestimated the power of Stan and Kyle's relationship, but I thought it had disappeared in the only way it could-gently, a layer at a time, like a Polaroid fading in the sun. After all, the other option was remembrance…and that hurt so much more than forgetting.

The parked car rose into my line of sight without warning. My lack of surprise startled me. Somehow, I had been expecting it. I eased down on my brakes and coasted onto the shoulder of road, turning on my emergency lights and exiting through the passenger door to a gust of mountain wind. The altitude made my whole body feel too heavy.

I walked past the city limits sign toward the man standing at the overlook railing, his back to me.

"Stan," I said.

He didn't turn, but he offered a hand. I grabbed it when it was in reach and trudged through the last few steps of snow, wrapping my arm around his shoulders when I reached the handrail. He clung back. Despite the weather, he was still warm.

"Kenny," he said. "Hey."

It was snowing in soft, unobtrusive expanses. I could still see South Park from here, all of it: Stark's Pond, the elementary school, rows of houses for our 1500 residents, the theatre, the isolated shape of Yes Foods Grocery, the steepled church shining bright as a lodestar a few blocks away from Main Street. The developed part of town occupied only a tiny ring between two sloped valleys, but the breadth of it was still magnificent-I had lived my entire life down there. This tiny settlement contained everything and everyone I'd ever known. I'd never consolidated my world in such a way before, but if I'd tried, it wouldn't have been as beautiful as this tiny collection of lights on a clean white map…a space that couldn't even be contained by a horizon. It carried the impression of eternity. I had never felt so young before, or so old.

"Jesus," I said, my voice small. "Wow."

"Yeah, it's really something," said Stan, pulling me closer. "I think sometimes that Kyle and I saw all of this too early. We were too hopeful to digest the magnitude. We were too…sixteen."

I glanced at him sideways. His eyes were reflecting the sky, muted gray. "Being young once isn't your fault," I said.

"Being blind is," he said.

He meant Kyle. I finally understood how little weight my consolations held for him-I was Kyle's friend too, easily his second closest, but Stan was galaxies ahead of me, able to see a light in Kyle that didn't even reach me from where I was standing. If anyone could've seen what Eric had done, it should've been him. But he hadn't. And he was the only one who didn't understand that none of us were holding him accountable.

Stan pulled away to look at me, then gazed over my shoulder at my car. "Why do you have the Volvo?" he asked.

I watched my breath dissipate in front of me. "What do you think? I'm running away." As if saying it would make it less disgraceful. "Consider this my goodbye, Stan. I'm going to get out of here, job be damned. _South Park_ be damned. I'm just…not cut out for this."

"You were doing fine a day ago," he said.

"Things have changed a bit since then," I said, holding his gaze to convey my meaning.

He took in a breath, held it, and nodded.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hide my expression before he could see it. "God. _Stan_."

A hush fell around us again. I hated the isolation of this overlook, hated that there was nothing to fill the space between us. Stan started to reach for me, swore, then pulled back and dropped his hands to his sides instead. He was upset, but steady. Steadier, in fact, than he had been since high school. "What happens now?" he asked. "Be honest."

I laughed, fighting my hysteria. "Stan, I'm giving up! I _lose_! I'm not going to serve an organization that forces me to arrest the people I care about. Harris isn't a fucking moron. He knows Kyle didn't do it. You wait around until they have to release him for lack of evidence or something, then you pick him up and drive away and never let them hear from either of you again. That's the happiest way that this could end, right? Just forget everything else and get the fuck out of here. You should've done it a long time ago. Everyone should've. Clyde, Pip, Butters, Thomas, Craig-I don't know why anyone is still here."

"They're all waiting to see someone pay for it," said Stan.

"You think they give a fuck who killed Eric?" I yelled. "You think they're sticking around to celebrate a martyr for a dead cause?"

"I know they are. I'm not stupid, and neither are you. The law failed them, and if they don't have a face for this trial, then everything Denver did just gets swept under the rug. You may have stopped believing in the system, Kenny, but I haven't. It's not Harris or Montgomery or Gregory; it's right versus wrong. It's _justice_, and it's useless if you don't answer to it."

"_Eric_ didn't answer to it!" I shouted. "I was toting that shit philosophy half an hour ago; don't even try!"

Stan's face was serene. "Cartman didn't face a judge, but he paid for what he did."

"Oh, did he, now?"

"Yes," said Stan. "I made sure of that."

I couldn't even look at him anymore. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the memo he had left on my bulletin board after I had taken Kyle's case: _Ken, you are great._ "Your fatal mistake. I recognized your handwriting from the note you slipped to Kyle, but that wasn't what tipped Harris and them off. Kyle wouldn't have let him bleed out."

Stan closed his eyes, ignoring my derision. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not Kyle. And I was _never _going to let him go to jail for this. This was all about his freedom."

"Except the part where you slashed Eric's throat open," I said.

His lips curled up in a humorless smile. "You're right," he said, his voice cold. "That was for _me_."

I shook my head. "You knew it was Kyle the second you saw him, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. I'm furious I didn't recognize him the second I _heard_ him. But…it's like that sometimes. In college, I'd hear this one voice in lecture hall that sounded like his. Or there in town, I'd be standing on the sidewalk on Main Street, and suddenly I'll catch a scent that reminds me of him…it's enough to bring me to my knees. To know that he was here the whole time…does that make a better lover, or a worse one? Would I have forgotten him years ago if I didn't feel him subliminally around South Park?"

The question was absurd. "No," I said.

Stan opened his eyes. "No," he agreed. "No."

I never wanted to have to think about this, but now I had to understand before I could move on. "So who else knew?" I asked. "You had Kyle in on this? Gregory? Token?"

"I think they knew. Not explicitly, because they would've been under obligation of the law to forward the information-but they didn't ask, and I didn't tell. They trusted me. I asked Gregory to pick Kyle up and take him back to Christophe's room after interrogation. Then I called you to see if we had cause to arrest Cartman. You said we didn't…but I couldn't wait, and neither could Kyle. So I went to Kyle's house. _Cartman's_ house."

"He was there?"

"He wouldn't answer the door, but he heard me climb through the bedroom window."

"Was he armed? Were _you_ armed?"

Stan's eyes flashed. "Neither of us had a weapon. Kenny, I wasn't planning to kill him; I just wanted to talk."

I wanted to believe him. "What changed in that amount of time?"

"I saw the chains on Kyle's side of bed," said Stan, his jaw tightening. "Then I saw the knife under the pillow on Cartman's. Imagine what was done to Kyle with that weapon, _in that bed_. If that wasn't a sign, tell me what is."

"It was a sign that said, 'Let Harris handle this,'" I said.

"Look me in the eyes, Kenny, and tell me you believe that."

I couldn't. Murder wasn't the answer, but neither was sitting back and waiting for Harris to take down Eric, Montgomery, and the rest of the Denver headquarters. In that time, Eric would've had another hotel rendezvous or two with Thomas, a month's income from Craig, more time to terrorize Pip and Clyde, more time to do god knew what to Kyle. Christophe would probably be dead and the South Park station would be dying. Lawful reckonings took time, causalities. Would we have survived it intact? I wanted to say yes. Yet here I was, running away after a single week.

"Justice exists beyond the police," Stan said into the silence. "Even it makes someone take a life. Even when it's not sanctioned. I always planned to serve my time, and, as it happens, I've got one hell of a lawyer to back me up."

"So that's where Token comes into this," I whispered.

Stan shook his head and reached into his coat. "No," he said, pulling out a folded bundle of papers. "Token was working with me on _this_."

I flipped through the pages. Immediately my eyes began to sting and the text blurred together. All the legal work was sound-it contained everything. Transfers of assets, joint bank account forms, vehicular signing-off and registration documents, even a modest private health care package. Finally, the deed to a house…a tiny single-bedroom ranch that Stan had been paying mortgage on, but without outrageous taxes, without chains on the walls. A quiet place for Kyle to stay until Stan came back.

Until Stan completed his term.

"Just need his signatures now," said Stan. He sighed. The snow spiraled in front of him. "My whole life in one packet of paper."

"Your life for Cartman's," I said.

"My life for _Kyle_'s," he said, smiling. "Fair trade."

I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him as hard as I could. He held me tight, his face buried in my shoulder, no more ghosts left between us to keep us apart. Stan Marsh. Kyle Broflovski's savior, Eric's executor, the uniformed witness for a voiceless town of victims. Most importantly, my best friend. The greatest man I would ever be privileged enough to know.

"Read 'em, detective," Stan said, kidding lightly despite his solemnity.

I laughed. "You're hilarious. That would take forty years off my life."

"Do it," he said. "I want you to. And let's go already."

I pulled back and stared into his eyes to see if he was joking. He wasn't. "Stan," I said quietly, stalling for time, and was shocked by my own realization: there was nothing left for me to say to him. Nothing at all that he didn't already know. I touched his face, his hands, everything so familiar and yet so unfathomable. He'd left me with nothing but that one syllable hanging on my lips, the only one that mattered. "_Stan_."

"Kenny," said Stan, grinned past the tears in his eyes.

Slowly, I took his arm and began to lead him back through the snow to my car. "Stanley Marsh, you are under arrest," I said. The attitude swallowed my words, left no echoes. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at government expense. Do you understand these rights?"

"I understand," Stan said.

He slid into the front seat and closed the door. I walked around the hood, sat down, and drew the belt over my lap. My hands trembled on the wheel for a moment. Then I turned the key and let the engine sputter to life. When I'd backed out and gotten my car oriented in the right direction-that slender treacherous road back to South Park-I had to pause. Something flickered in my recent memory. Something that was only just now starting to make sense.

Stan touched my elbow. His voice was soft. "What are you thinking about?"

"Craig Tucker got a new tattoo the other day," I said haltingly. "'Lex talionis. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth for a tooth, an arm for an arm…'"

"'A life for a life,'" Stan finished.

I released a slow breath. "I thought it was bullshit, but that's how it all turned out, didn't it? Eric took Kyle's…so you took Eric's."

"Who took mine?" asked Stan.

I had to think about it for a long time. "Justice," I said finally. "That's where it all ends."

"No," Stan said. "No." He leaned forward in his seat and looked me straight in the eyes. "That's where it all _begins_."

* * *

I paged ahead to tell Harris that I was driving Stan back to the station. By the time we got there, a crowd had assembled outside the front doors, no doubt drawn to the Cañon City squad car that had arrived to transport our detainee to the Fremont Correctional Facility. I didn't know if word had gotten out yet that the transfer would be Stan, not Kyle-Randy and Sharon Marsh were conspicuously absent from the spectators. I hoped that Dawson or Murphy had managed to contact them before the rumor mill had reached them. I wanted to keep the damage to a minimum, whatever that counted for in a situation like this.

Stan saw the faces through my car's tinted windows: Clyde, Craig and Thomas, Butters, who'd had nothing to go home for, and Pip and Damien. I don't know how much Stan knew, but there was too much going on in his eyes for me to believe he didn't have some knowledge of their situations. Token and Gregory had probably kept him informed. They might not have been communicating with each other, but they were doing what they could to twist this case without hurting the law…or me. This whole time, they had been cushioning my falls, bracing me for the inevitable. Friends of justice. Friends I could trust. There was no bitterness in Stan's expression-only sympathy, gratitude, and quiet fear.

Such _brave_ fear.

Barbrady had cordoned off the perimeter, but a dozen reporters had made it past the barricades-not just from the South Park Herald; the major local networks were there, too. This case had garnered statewide attention. Murphy waited at the curb until I had parked before moving to open my passenger door, keeping his body expertly aligned between Stan and the spectators. They moved towards the station. Flashbulbs lit the air. Dawson dispatched the most aggressive anchors with few firm gestures, then reached down to help me out of my seat.

"Are you okay?" he asked under the crowd's noise.

"No," I said.

Dawson nodded. His hand tightened around mine. "Will you be okay eventually?"

The commotion soared abruptly to unparalleled decibels as something changed by the station doors, cutting off my reply. But that clamor was only filler, insubstantial, as meaningless as static. I heard his voice before I saw him. We all did.

"Stan! _Stan_!"

Kyle had thrown open the doors to the station. He was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, his white sneakers. His wrists were free of cuffs. He only had to search the sea of viewers for half a second before his gaze found the man he'd been seeking in fantasy for ten captive years, but this-_this_ was solid. This couldn't dissolve behind his waking eyelids. Eric couldn't dash this on the floor and leave him to pick up the pieces. Kyle flung himself into Stan's ready arms, and Stan clutched him back as hard as he could, lifting him to the tips of his toes. Their lips met for the flashbulbs, but they'd already achieved immortality outside of their criminal celebrity. Kyle swiped tears off Stan's face with his free hands. Stan just kept kissing him, sustaining his delicate weight like a gentleman, the cadence of their mouths broken only his soft mantra: "I'm sorry. I love you, Kyle. I'm sorry."

"I'll be okay," I said to Dawson, and moved past them into the station, leaving them in the world's uncertain hands.

I went straight to my office and stood there for a long time. A few days ago, Stan had sat at this very desk, Kyle and Eric hiding nameless in our file. With Stan's presence and Kyle's anonymity, I could afford to imagine them in peace. I didn't know what was going to happen to them now. I only knew that I was going to be there every step of the way, for both of them, serving my truest friends to the best of my abilities.

I had my hand ready on the phone when it began to buzz.

"Hello," I said into the receiver, after a few rings that allowed me time to steady my breathing.

"Hi."

My anonymous tipper was strangely reticent today. I unpinned everything from my bulletin board as I waited, tucking the photographs into my pocket, extracting the final thumbtack just in time to hear his choked apology.

"I-I'm so sorry. I never meant to implicate Stan, you know. I just…wanted Cartman to pay for what he did to me. To all of us."

"I understand," I said. "Thank you for your help. We might not have gotten him without you."

"Yeah, right. Is a warning still useful if it comes six years too late?"

"It was in this case. I promise."

More silence. Then, just barely in my earshot, "Kenny-where are you right now? Can you see them?"

I leaned back in my chair and peeked through the blinds, past the glare of activity, where my star witnesses had stepped out onto empty the pavement. Butters stood bravely upright, ignoring the crowd. Clyde was praying. Pip wasn't. Damien stood well out of Pip's personal space, the extent of his contact one platonic palm on his back. But to their right, Craig and Thomas were kissing without inhibitions, Craig's arms wrapped around Thomas' waist, Thomas clinging to Craig with one hand and holding his cell phone with the other.

I could guess who he had just finished speaking with.

"Yeah, I see them," I said, sitting back.

"Do they look happy?"

"Yeah. They really do."

"Good. Okay." A pause, the calm kind, the sound of letting go. "I think I'm going to hang up now. Thank you for listening to me when no one else would. I mean-just, thank you. For _everything_."

"Hey—wait!" I couldn't let him disconnect on that note of desperation. I needed to know.

He paused. "Yeah?"

"Are _you_ happy?"

He laughed. "Am I happy? Jesus, no. Of course I'm not happy. But for the first time in years-I have a feeling that I _could_ be. And that's enough for me. You have a good life, Kenny."

I let the tears stay in my eyes for a moment before I blinked them away. "And you, Tweek. I mean it."

There was one last deliberate lull before the line went quiet.

From the hall, I heard no click of the recording software stopping. Johnson hadn't replaced the tape. I would probably never hear that voice again. It was fine, though-what else could we say? If it was enough for Tweek, it was enough for me. I reached back and respectfully closed my blinds on the culmination of Thomas and Craig's lifelong romance.

In the reflection of the window, I saw Gregory hesitate in the doorway, then start to pass by.

"Gregory, wait," I called.

He turned back. His expression was full of honest concern. He was as capable of kindness as the rest of us, even if he didn't want to admit it-there was a subtle new warmth to the way he looked at me now, something that was more of a friend and less of an opponent. The willingness in his stance left all of his weak points exposed. He still trusted me not to attack them.

"You dropped something," he said finally. He crossed the room and put my badge back in my palm. I closed my hand around it, feeling its cold heaviness.

"Anything from Hell's Pass?" I asked, forcing myself to speak.

"Yes, the head of security found a misplaced tape of footage," said Gregory. "Mr. Broflovski stopping in one last time after leaving the police station and staying for a few moments. The time frame is narrow, but it clears him of the crime. He had an alibi. He was telling the truth."

I shook my head. "Oh-no. I mean-that's good news, but I was asking about Christophe."

It caught Gregory off guard, and I was moved to see the surprise in his face before he broke into an irrepressible smile. "As a matter of fact-yes. An attendant called me just a few moments ago. Aside from his damaged pride, it looks like he'll make almost a full recovery."

I grinned back. "Really? And…?"

Gregory's cheeks reddened. "And he asked to see me," he said, his voice soft. "I plan to…give him a letter."

A letter? I laughed. Against the terrifying prospect of a love interest, even Gregory was reduced to writing. "That's great," I said. On impulse, I reached to take his hand. He squeezed mine back and held it for a moment longer than was necessary, his smile fading a little as the outside noise seeped into the station for a few seconds before quieting again. I didn't need to look over Gregory's shoulder to see Harris behind him, moving Stan to his office for booking. Stan was wordless, at peace. At least there was that.

"Detective," Gregory began.

"I'm sorry," I said, cutting him off. "I am so fucking sorry. What I accused you of-it was absolutely unforgivable. I had no right to-"

"You had every right," said Gregory.

Now I had to stop and stare at him. "You were being kind to me, and I twisted it all around on you."

"No," he said simply. "I tried very hard to share nothing of myself with you. I'm not surprised that you misinterpreted my actions- I gave you nothing to work with, did I? Please know that I meant everything I said about you, that every clumsy social gesture was genuine. Forgive me for not being clear about where we stand. I'm just…a little new at this friendship thing."

It wasn't right of him to take the blame for this one. I'd gotten away clean too many times already-I would not let this one sit. I had earned my guilt.

"Be _reasonable_," I begged him quietly.

He was already putting on his gloves again, ready to go outside. "The most reasonable thing a true human being could've done here is believe in the truth," said Gregory, his gaze level. "The truth of honesty. The truth of love. The truth of justice, in all its backhanded forms. You were just watching out for your friend. I thank you, Kenny, for watching over mine."

In preparation for the media bloodbath, Christophe's crime scene had finally been process and dismantled. Gregory pulled on his coat and left the station, his silhouette dignified against the swarm of paparazzi, stray tendrils of police tape gleaming behind him like wings.

I didn't have much in my office that I needed to take with me. My cases were finished, all the paperwork complete from the quiet month before South Park had become the country's biggest scandal. I had spent so much of my life here. It frightened me to realize that the only personality I had ever imposed on it was a few memos on my bulletin board, a coffee mug pencil holder, a few stray articles of clothing to compensate for the temperamental heating ducts. I pulled the jackets off the coat rack one by one. Stan had a sweater on the bottom. I clutched the well-worn fabric to my face and breathed in his scent one last time. I wanted to remember him like this forever. Familiar. _Free_.

Stan was being jostled along to the Cañon City squad car now. I could hear it in the reporters' growing urgency, Kyle's desperate voice. Only two walls away, they were losing each other again.

In just a few days, I had learned so much from the people around me. I had learned about the infinite cruelty of a sociopath's psyche. I learned what it meant to trust and suspect, how easy it was to fall, how hard you could cling to someone without regard for time, distance, law, logic. Most importantly, I had seen a triumph of love-not over captivity or injustice or even crime. Love, in and of itself. The way Stan had swept Kyle off of the sidewalk and into his arms. The way Kyle's mouth moved against Stan's, all the words he didn't have to say.

I knew now where I was needed. With Stan's sweater in my arms, I left the office, turned out the lights, and locked the door behind me. I placed my keys at the front desk. I walked down a stretch of hallway that I had traveled a thousand times before, a path I could walk blindfolded…but this time each step was like some small taste of flight.

My whole body felt lighter without the weight of my badge over my heart.

I left it gleaming by the door, where Harris would see it.

And I never looked back.

* * *

End of part four

* * *

Still an epilogue left, which means if there are any loose ends I need to tie up, you would be awesome to tell me now. Thank you so, so much for reading. Please tell me what you think-if you could keep spoilers to a minimum, I would be grateful, but I'M SO NOT PICKY.


End file.
